And Other Dangerous Pursuits
by varietyofwords
Summary: AU, but set around the events of Season One and Two. Chuck and Blair. "He wants her, cannot let her go. But to grasp what exists between them, he will have to accept the emotional closeness that would be – already was – a foregone conclusion, a vital part of what bound them."
1. Part One

**Author's Note**: I have wanted to write a "what if Blair really was pregnant in season one?" story for a while now. My attempt morphed into this AU thing that has been written, deleted, rewritten, and recused from my computer's recycling bin multiple times. It uses scenes from the show, which makes me rather nervous given what happened the last time I tried this in a different fandom. Anyways, the key point is that this is an AU fic that borrows scenes from the show.

The title of this piece comes from Laila Lalami's novel, _Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits_. At some point whilst writing this my eye happened to land on the spine of the novel and I could no longer shake the idea that this story has to be called "And Other Dangerous Pursuits". It, of course, breaks my implicit rule that all fics have single word titles, but sometimes things fit too well.

* * *

Nathaniel is running late. Or, so Chuck deduces from the passing time and the lack of text or call on the part of his best friend. This kind of behavior – showing up late, not updating people on his whereabouts – would never fly with his father, but then again Nate's parents actually love him and this is not a business meeting.

The bar is crowded; the hostess looks overwhelmed. His finger has been off the pulse of the Manhattan social scene for long enough that he has never even heard of this place before. But the amount of people crammed into this establishment, the amount of people trying to beg for a table makes it plain that this is the place to see and be seen. The scotch isn't bad, and the wait is nothing a hundred dollar bill or two can't solve. People like him don't make reservations and, even if he had, Nate's tardiness would have made them already miss it.

Instead, he orders another scotch and scans the room, appraising the appearance of every woman in this place. He doesn't look twice; he never looks twice at the same woman. Yet, when his eyes settle on the brunette at the end of the bar, he finds that he cannot look away.

He watches the way her finger skims the rim of her half-drunk martini glass. He watches the way her curls fall in front of her face, the way they bounce and sway every time the door to this establishment opens and the gust of wind catches her in its breeze. He watches the way her hips shift and her knee-length silk dress rides up every time she crosses and uncross her legs, the way she ignores every man who approaches her.

Suddenly, it becomes a challenge, a game. He wants to saddle up next to her, take her down a notch and gain her attention. But, most of all, he wants to know why she looks so damn bored.

"You look ravishing."

She looks directly at him, and he is taken aback by just how beautiful she is. The look on her face is one of surprise; he can tell the comment, the heat in his voice has startled her. But just as quickly it is replaced by disgust as her eyes roam over him, mentally picking him apart like a buzzard picks apart a carcass.

"Is that your pick up line?"

Her voice is dripping with incredulity, and he rewards her with a smirk. He's never used those words on anyone before so he is unsure of the follow-up. Now it seems silly to have expected her to just fall into his arms, to just demand that he take her now.

"I'm engaged," she informs him, thrusting the diamond on her fourth finger in his face. She sounds smug and the diamond looks oddly familiar, but he doesn't care because engaged is not the same thing as married.

"Where's your fiancé?"

The smug look on her face falters for a brief moment. She starts to explain how he is running late but cuts herself off and states that her fiancé's whereabouts are none of his business. Her attempt at an explanation is useless, though. He is far too enraptured with the shape of her ruby red lips to listen.

"If I was your man," he informs her as he drops his voice and leans closer to her ear. "I wouldn't need instructions on how to find you."

He backs away with a self-satisfied smirk. She is too good at this to give him the satisfaction of a shiver, but he can see the gleam in her eye as she opens her mouth.

"Or ravish me, I'm sure."

He is stunned, frozen in his spot over her reply and unable to do anything as her smirk morphs into a picture perfect smile and she slides off her stool. For a brief moment, he thinks she might actually be taking him up on his implicit offer and thus be easier than he thought. But she slips past him, greets the man who has stopped next to him with a kiss.

"Sorry I'm late," the familiar voice apologizes. "Oh, good, I see you've met Chuck."

The contribution of his name makes everything click, and he turns to his left to see the brunette tucked into the embrace of his best friend. Nate conducts formal introductions as the smile on her face disappears for a moment. Chuck offers his hand, jumps at the electricity that courses through him as her slim fingers slip into his palm for a handshake.

And then he knows he's fucked because the woman he has taken to calling the Ice Queen, the woman with the witty retort is his best friend's fiancée.

* * *

He barely manages to make it through dinner, focuses the conversation entirely upon his latest business venture and makes a point of ignoring her. She seems disgusted to learn that he is trying to purchase a burlesque club, grows increasingly annoyed with his rude behavior. He comes up with an excuse that sounds lame to him (and her), but Nate buys it and he is able to escape before dessert. And, as Arthur speeds through midtown Manhattan, he makes a promise to avoid her at all costs.

Except, on Tuesday, Nate calls him and rambles on for fifteen minutes about some emergency at his father's company that he needs to help handle before asking him if he can please take the time out of his day today to drive up to New Haven. He asks why before he remembers that the Ice Queen lives there, that the Ice Queen is a freshman at Yale.

He tries to come up with an excuse to get him out of whatever Nate wants as he listens to Nate explain that Blair is giving a speech representing the freshman class that is really, really important to her. His best friend sounds almost desperate as he confesses that he completely forgot until her reminder text this morning, and he feels irrationally angry over the fact that he remembered even though she mentioned it only once at dinner last week.

But Nate's got him by the balls, reminds him of that time that he covered for him to Bart and prevented him from getting shipped off to outer Siberia. (Boarding school in Switzerland was bad enough, and Prague at least possessed some semblance of civilization.) The photographic proof sent to his phone is more than enough incentive. He just got back into his father's good graces, just got invited back to New York, and he's not about to be banished again.

So he instructs Arthur to drive him to New Haven, tries to formulate a plan for dealing with brunette curls and ruby red lips as he edits his business plan during the nearly two hours it takes him to get from the Upper East Side to the Yale campus. Nate's directions are shit and it takes eight coeds – coeds he'd rather be following back to their dorm rooms – to find the right building.

He barely manages to slip into a seat in the back before the program begins, but he doesn't go entirely unnoticed. By the time he is settled into his seat, by the time he spies her on the stage, her expression has morphed from masked anxiety to masked confusion. He offers her a shrug but the lights are already dimmed and his movements go unseen.

The program is long, longer than Nate had estimated, and it's over an hour before she is announced. She moves gracefully, commands the podium as though she is queen and the audience is full of her subjects. Maybe not always loyal, maybe not always deferential, but her subjects none the less. Her speech is poised and perfect just like her, but he does not miss the not-so-subtle digs at her competition even if everyone else does.

He waits near the back row of the auditorium, watches as everyone from coeds to professors flock around her and watches as her expression changes to an odd combination of disbelief and disgust when they are the only two left in the auditorium. The flowers are thrust into her hands as she asks him what he's doing here, as she eyes the red roses with distrust.

"They're from Nate," he informs her. The statement isn't entirely true. Nate didn't even mention bringing her flowers, but he figures that's what boyfriends do and girls like red roses, right?

"He, uh, couldn't make it. He sent me instead."

"You're not going to take me out to dinner, are you?"

Her question throws him for a moment. Nate said nothing about dinner; he was only supposed to show up and hear her speech. But the way she asks it makes it sound like she is expecting him to do so, to want to do so.

"Do you want me to?"

"You're not my boyfriend," she reminds him, although he's not sure if the reminder is for him or for her.

"I have a lot of homework, anyways," she demurely adds. It's the perfect excuse, but neither of them grasps onto it the way they should. Instead, they stand in an empty auditorium and try to figure out how to extradite themselves from this situation.

"Here I thought you were the perfect Upper East Side princess."

"Excuse me?" She cries out incredulously.

"You could at least play the proper hostess and offer to show me around," he replies. "I drove all the way up here, and you're just going to send me off without giving me a tour. I've never been on a college campus."

"I find that hard to believe," she retorts. He smirks at her response, amends his early statement to state that he's never been on the Yale campus before.

"Why do you care?" She asks just as he asks himself the same question.

Because the truth is that he doesn't care, but the way she talked about Yale in her speech makes it sound like the most exciting place to be. More exciting than a brothel in Prague, more exciting than his new club on a Friday night. Except her eyes don't match her mouth, and he wants to know why that is.

"I don't," he snaps. "I just want to know where to find the easiest coeds. I figured who better to ask than an insider."

"You're disgusting," she announces before turning on her heels and stomping away from him.

He doesn't bother calling after her, doesn't bother following her. Rather, he watches curiously as she drops the dozen red roses in the nearest trash can before fleeing the building.

* * *

The following Monday Nate invites him out to dinner. He accepts because he thinks it will be just the two of them, but he arrives at the same restaurant he first met her in to see her seated next to his best friend. Across from them is a blonde woman, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that this is a blind, double date.

Nate mumbles an apology to him when they greet each other, and his perfunctory greeting to his best friend's fiancée is met with her own introductions. The woman seated with them really needs no introduction because even he has heard of wild child Serena van der Woodsen despite not living here for the last three years.

Serena's better qualities are praised by the couple across the table from him with Blair gushing and Nate nodding his head in agreement. She's a freshman at Brown just visiting for the weekend but she grew up on the Upper East Side, and, Chuck, did you know that Serena and Blair have been best friends since they were four?

Truth be told, Serena is blonde and beautiful and has breasts and probably would have been his type. But tonight he is far more fascinated by the way Nate's eyes are following his fiancée's best friend (and maid of honor, he is informed during the course of the dinner) rather than his fiancée and by the way Blair's eyes aren't matching her mouth as she tries to encourage something between him and Serena.


	2. Part Two

**Author's Note:** Thank you all for your words of encouragement either through reviews or PMs. I shall try to stop doubting myself.

* * *

Less than a week later, he is privy to one of her schemes. She didn't invite him to join her, doesn't seem too thrilled at the fact that he saw her. But it's not entirely his fault that she chose to hide behind the tree his limo is parked next to.

She is all shadows and allusions, hiding behind her beret and curls, and he is so very intrigued. He asks her what she is doing, why she is in midtown Manhattan on a Tuesday night when she should be in New Haven. But she shushes him, tells him to shut up as she pulls him around to the other side of his car and forces him to duck.

_"Not enough drama in domestic bliss with Nate? You know when people step outside their relationship for a thrill it's usually not alone and in the dark."_

He watches her watch a poorly dressed man with a mop of curly black hair on top of his head walk down the street alone. She snaps multiple photos of him with her Blackberry yet the mysterious man never notices the woman watching him. She pockets her phone, starts to walk away from him in the opposite direction of the mysterious man, but he catches up to her and demands an answer.

(Actually, it isn't so much as a demand as a plea, but he refuses to acknowledge that particular tone in his voice.)

"Where have you been living?" She asks him in disbelief. "Under a rock on Staten Island?"

He raises an eyebrow at her barb, silently asking her to fill him in on the information that he has clearly been denied. She sighs in frustration, steps closer to him, and drops her voice to something closer to a whisper.

"That horrible, little man is Dan Humphrey. He's from Brooklyn," she tells him with a voice dripping in disdain as those his hometown is the gravest of sins he might commit. "He dated Serena when we were in high school, and when she woke up and smelled Brooklyn, he published details – intimate details – about her on the internet."

She huffs in frustration at the way he asks her what exactly she is planning on doing about this because it sounds like he doesn't believe she's capable of really doing anything. Her reputation on the Upper East Side for revenge and schemes normally precedes her, and she is annoyed that someone who does not quake under her glare is being forced into her life.

"Do yourself a favor," she instructs him. "If you want to belong on the Upper East Side, get yourself an education on how things work around here."

"And where do you suggest I start?"

"I don't know," she snaps before stalking away from him. "Google revenge and click on the first search result."

He pulls out his own cell phone, launches the internet browser, and googles revenge just as she suggested. He chokes on a laugh when he reads the name of the first website returned by the search engine – Blair Waldorf dot com.

The laugh tumbles out when he clicks on the website and is greeted by a message congratulating him on his attempt to be better before reminding him that there can only be one Queen B. He closes out of the browser and presses number two on his speed dial before raising the phone to his ear.

"Mike? Chuck Bass. I need everything you can find on one Dan Humphrey of Brooklyn."

* * *

Chuck attends the Shepherd wedding because Bart tells him he has to, demands he make an appearance so as to not insult Mister Shepherd. He doesn't want to go, and it's not because he has slept with the bride and the maid of honor and two of the bridesmaids but rather because he does not like weddings.

It seems illogical to stand in front of all of high society and promise yourself to one person when everyone knows the groom will start sleeping with his secretary by year's end and the bride will start sleeping with her yoga instructor after she has a kid or two and is desperately trying to whip her body back into shape. They – like nearly all their business partners and so-called friends in attendance – will end up divorced in five or six years; the prenuptial agreement making it easy to divide up the assets with neither side really wanting custody of the kids.

Weddings are not his forte; marriage is not his cup of tea.

But he shows up at the reception, expensive present purchased by Bart's secretary under his arm. He is annoyed to find that he is seated with the bride's eighty-nine-year-old Aunt Mildred, relieved to hear that Blair had to miss the wedding, and curious at the fact that Nate and Serena are seated together.

At some point, while he's busy getting hammered or dancing with the bridesmaids he hasn't slept with yet, Nate and Serena disappear. They are too smart to leave together, too stupid to actually leave the establishment. So when he excuses himself from the party and goes searching for the bathroom, he ends up walking into them mid-tryst on the bar.

He ends up watching for a bit because he likes to do that, likes to watch. Their hands are sliding all over one another, grabbing and pulling with such desperation that there is no way they can claim that they were drunk. Tipsy? Maybe. But their actions speak louder than words, and Chuck leaves when the moment ends up feeling less like a turn on and more like rage.

Arthur is already waiting at the curb for him when he leaves the party for good, ready and waiting to drive him anywhere around the city that he wants to go. His first instruction is for Arthur to head straight for the Waldorf's penthouse, dead set on telling Blair what her fiancé is up to right now before remembering that she is still in New Haven studying for midterm exams.

Instead, he tells Arthur to drive around the city as he debates what to do. It's nearly four in the morning before he arrives back at the Palace weary and exhausted and crawls between his sheets. In the afternoon, an unmarked envelope is couriered to a dorm room at Yale by Arthur so that when Blair returns from her economics class she finds all the information she needs to aid in her takedown. It is his apology even if he doesn't know what he is apologizing for.

* * *

Later, when he meets Nate for drinks after his best friend has a particularly hard day at the office, he manages to steer the conversation towards Blair and Serena. The blonde next to him at the bar seems cagy as Chuck questions him about Serena, almost possessive as he talks about the woman. Chuck never mentions that he saw the two of them at the Shepherd wedding, tries to pretend that he isn't dying to ask Nate why he fucked over his beautiful fiancée.

Instead, he asks Nate why Blair, why propose marriage to a freshman in college when he graduated from Dartmouth last spring. He could tolerate a passing fancy for the blonde, could almost expect it if Nate's answers were not the ones they were.

_My dad adores her. She's a Waldorf. She's good for my family. Her mother's company is important to my dad._

Yes, he wants to say, but what about her?

* * *

On a Saturday morning a few weeks later, right about the time he starts wondering why he agreed to get up this early and play a sport he has no interest in, Nate decides to inform him that he needs to get fitted for a tuxedo for the wedding. The caveat – because there is always is a caveat – is that Blair has to have final approval on his tuxedo and thus she will be attending his fitting with him.

He has been picking out his own clothes since he was four, and he assures Nate that he can find something suitable on his own, particularly since their wedding isn't until next April. But Nate refuses, mumbles something about Blair and control freak and perfection. In the end, he agrees only because his best friend asks him to do this, to make things with her go a little more smoothly.

So he shows up at that tailors on a Wednesday afternoon when he should be finalizing his business proposal for his father and she should be attending her Introduction to Psychology class. He picks the time in the hopes she won't attend, but this is Blair Waldorf and she's not about to let him to pick the wrong cut or show up at her wedding in black-blue rather than black-black. Or, so she says to him via text message after Nate gives her his phone number.

His late arrival is met with disapproving eyes, and he almost remarks about how ridiculous it is that he must be on time but Nate can just show up whenever he damn well pleases. He strips off his suit (thankfully, alone in the dressing room) and allows the tailor to help dress him in the shirt, pants, bowtie, and coat she has selected. The tails are too small, though, and the tailor ducks away from the pair to find a coat in a larger size for him to try on.

She steps towards him, close enough that the sweet smell of her grows stronger with every inhale of breath, and tries to adjust his attire. He side steps her, tries to adjust everything himself because if she comes any closer, if she touches him…

"Oh, don't be such a baby," she snaps as she bats away his hand and adjusts the pale pink bow tie at his neck. She fixes the collar, pulls on the starched fabric around his waist until it is smooth against his stomach. Stepping away from him, her eyes rake over his form with a critical eye.

"Not bad, Bass," she praises before stepping forward towards him again. Her hand skims his waist band, tugging on the fabric of his tuxedo pants. "Nate is wearing silver, but black is classic and-"

Her hand ghosts too close, and he swallows the hiss before it can escape his lips. His pants grow painfully tight; his heart thuds louder in his ears. And even then she does not stop, does not realize what she's doing until the bumbling tailor returns and bumps her right into his arms.

His reaction is involuntary; his fingers snake around her waist to keep her from falling and he holds her closer to his body. He grows harder – hard than he thought possible – and she lets out an audible gasp at the feeling. He drops his hands from her waist, backs away from her with his palms up in deference. Her doe eyes are wide in surprise, wider still when the tailor opens his mouth.

"My apologies, Miss Waldorf," the elderly man says. Concern is dripping from his voice, but it's not concern for her safety but rather concern about the loss of this large account that causes him to apologize so quickly. A quick, cutting glare and a barked dismissal from her sends him scurrying away.

He won't look her in the eye, adverts his gaze as he tries to figure out how he will extract himself from this situation. His clothes are still in the dressing room and while he would have no qualms about leaving them behind and telling the tailor to charge him for the new tuxedo, his cell phone and wallet were left with his attire.

"I don't understand," she whispers softly.

His brain barely registers her words as he decides to just abandon everything, to escape before he can do anything that he will regret. But her words – her innocence gives him pause. Surely, she must know. Surely, she must understand the effect she has on him, the effect she has on any man in her presence.

"I'm not...I'm not blonde or –"

"Stop," he yells.

The harshness in his voice causes her to jump, causes her eyes to flash in confusion. But he does not care. He will not listen to this; he will not let her find fault within herself. But she is also engaged to his best friend – the closest thing he has to a brother – and he cannot – _will not_ – ruin this for them.

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm a man," he reminds her. "You're a woman. You were touching me. What did you think would happen?"

The confusion in her eyes is replaced with indignation, with disgust. She doesn't protest when he excuses himself, doesn't see the way his shoulders sag as he walks away from her.

He doesn't see much of her after the fitting room incident, only small glimpses at parties or other functions they both decide to attend. She is perfectly poised, perfectly presentable every time he sees her but for a brief moment her posture is shaken when she sees him. He doesn't always see it and for that she is thankful.

But her best friend sees it, sees it in the same way that Blair notices how distant Nate has become. In other words, she notices it but never mentions it because she'd rather pretend her eyes are playing tricks on her than face the truth.


	3. Part Three

**Author's Note:** Bumping the rating up M because I have to. Apologies if that's not your cup of tea.

* * *

The Waldorfs and the Archibalds have taken to having monthly dinners together, a sort of prequel of what is sure to come as the Captain says. (She really should start calling him Howard, but he has been the Captain for so long that it is hard for Blair to accept the change even with the van der Bilt diamond on her finger.) Two days before her nineteenth birthday, Eleanor decides to hold an early birthday dinner at her home for the Waldorfs and the Archibalds in honor of her daughter.

Nate tries to come up with an excuse, and only shows up after Blair promises to accompany him to Chuck's new club – the one Chuck talks about every time she sees him – just as soon as the dinner party is over. She doesn't want to go, doesn't want to deal with strippers or innuendos or the awkwardness she feels given what transpired between the two of them at his tuxedo fitting on the night she is quasi-celebrating her birthday. But she agrees because she needs Nate to attend, needs him to show up so she doesn't have to see the look of disapproval in her mother's eye.

(Of course, Serena does not come even though Eleanor has suggested Blair invite her. She had not, of course, because she is not about to sit through a dinner where both Eleanor and Anne Archibald fawn over her best friend. It would not have mattered anyways. Blair has the sneaking suspicion that Serena is ignoring her, and she isn't sure if it is because something is wrong between them or because Serena has gone back to Cabbage Patch and doesn't know how to tell her best friend.)

Anne Archibald is as distant as ever despite Blair's attempts to engage her in conversation. Yet Howard and Eleanor Waldorf keep babbling on and on about wedding plans and the future of their two children together that it is easy for Blair to pretend that Nate's aloofness is merely indicative of a problem at work rather than a problem at home.

The cutting glare of her mother as she accepts another piece of dessert, though, has her mumbling an excuse and removing herself from the table. The wary look from Dorota isn't enough to stop her from heading to the bathroom and turning on the faucet so no one can hear her shame spiral.

Of course, she exits the bathroom just in time to hear Nate and his father arguing near the elevator. For a brief moment, fear bubbles up in her chest that maybe the two of them heard her. Their argument is more about business at the Captain's company, however, and she is just about to move out of the shadows when uniformed police officers step off the elevator and place the Captain under arrest.

She watches in astonishment as her future father-in-law is led away, read his Miranda rights and informed that he has been placed under arrest for embezzlement and fraud. Anne, Eleanor, and Dorota all seem shocked at the turn of the events, scrambling to tell the Captain that they will call the lawyers and get this whole situation sorted out as he is lead away to the awaiting police car. Nate seems unsurprised, unshaken by the turn of events even after the police find cocaine on the Captain, and Blair follows him out to the street straight to his town car.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to Victrola," he explains as she slams the car door on him. "I promised Chuck. It's important to him."

"Your father just got arrested!" She exclaims before dropping her voice an octave. "Why didn't you come to me? I would have listened."

"I tried, Blair. But every time I try something's got your attention – a dinner party, the wedding."

"I thought I was doing everything right," she replies softly.

"It's not your fault," he tells her, but the response is not satisfactory.

"Do you love me?"

He looks at her, looks away, and her heart plummets to the pit of her stomach. She can't breathe, raising her hands to cover her eyes as she berates herself for getting into this mess. Maybe if she had been more attentive, maybe if she hadn't withheld sex for so long, maybe –

She cuts herself off, swallows back her tears as she refuses to let him see her cry and tells him to deal with his father because the Captain needs him and she doesn't.

The driver of the town car, which she commandeers from Nate, offers to take her anywhere. She wrenches the ring off her finger and pockets it in her purse as the driver pulls away from the curve. She thinks she must be possessed when she tells the driver to take her to Victrola, becomes convinced that she has lost her mind when the car pulls up in front of the place and Chuck Bass greets her.

He seems nervous that she has come alone, and for a brief moment she wonders if he wasn't entirely truthful with her at the tuxedo fitting. He seems far too skittish for that to just be a typical man-woman interaction, particularly after she informs him that she and Nate broke up.

"I don't want to talk about it. I just want to escape. That's what this place is for, right?"

The idea of the place sounded so disgusting to her but now that is she is here, sitting on this couch and watching the dancers on stage, she is actually kind of enthralled and – dare she say it – proud of him. It has francizing potential, and she can definitely see the appeal of having your own slice of Las Vegas in your backyard.

After all, what happens at Victrola stays at Victrola.

"I know you don't want to talk about what happened, but –"

"Relief," she interrupts. "I feel relief."

He doesn't question her, doesn't press her for more information as he watches her watch the dancers on stage. Half a bottle of Dom and he cannot tell if she is actually enthralled with Victrola or if the alcohol is clouding her judgment.

"You know I've got moves."

"Really? Then why don't you get up there."

"No," she says with a laugh. "I'm just saying – I have moves."

"Come on," he cajoles. "You're ten times hotter than any of those girls."

"I know what you're doing, Bass," she replies, averting her gaze from him to the women on the stage. "You really don't think I'll go up there."

"I know you won't do it," he tells her because she is far too perfect, far too set on her Park Avenue Princess role to do anything quite so daring. She looks positively indignant at his instance, places her glass on the table and instructs him to guard her drink.

He gestures for her to go ahead, settles into the couch with the expectation that she will change her mind and return to her seat. Except she does nothing of the sort; steps up on the stage, pulls off her headband, and tosses it into the crowd. Her prudish dress – the one that hides every part of her luscious body from his gaze – falls to the floor, and he finds his own jaw dropping in amazement.

And then she is up there dancing, swaying her hips and running her hand across her shoulders. Dancing neither for the crowd cheering her on nor for him watching in awe but for herself. Just for her.

"Who's that girl?" Someone in the crowd asks him, and he finds him shaking his head in response.

"I have no idea."

Because the truth is that he really has no clue. Every stereotype he has cast her as, every category he has placed her in has suddenly been shattered. He raises a glass to her, toasts the woman he watches in awe as the yearning he has for her shifts from lust to something indescribable.

* * *

He offers to drive her home because the Archibalds' town car has disappeared and, after all, it is the least he can do for the woman who just graced the stage of his new establishment. She thanks him for the lift as the car speeds towards her home, as images of her dance play over and over again in his head.

"You were amazing up there," he tells her.

Her eyes rake over him, lock onto his as she slides across the bench seat until their shoulders are touching. Their lips barely touch before she shifts again, and for a brief moment he thinks that maybe he has gone too far. He fully expects her to jump away from him, but her fingers grasp onto his and her eyes say everything there is to say as she rolls her hips and leans towards him again.

"You sure?"

He asks because she is his best friend's fiancée – ex-fiancée, he corrects – and because she is a virgin. Nate had shared that bit of information with him right about the time he first mentioned her to his best friend, explained how he wasn't getting laid because Blair wants to wait until marriage or something equally as special. Chuck doesn't want to take that moment from her, a fact that surprises and confuses him.

But there is no doubt, no hesitation on her part as her lips crash into his. Her hand slides to his lap; her body soon follows. Her lips never leave his as her fingers stroke to nape of his neck, as he slides his hands around her back and pulls her closer to him. He tumbles them both into the far corner of the limo so she is beneath him, so he can regain the upper hand, but she pushes back and they are upright and meshed together as the flimsy strap of her champagne-colored slip falls.

The skylight above them allows just enough of light from the city outside to wash over them, enough from him to see the way her body is twisted around his. Sinking deeper into her mouth, he pushes the other strap from her shoulder, baring her from the waist up. The lack of bra surprises him, but he shakes the thought away as he breaks the kiss and bends his head to pay homage to the perfection cupped in each hand.

She gasps. Her fingers tighten on his hair; her back bows as he feasts. Her breathing becomes fractured and desperate until his name falls from her lips in a pleading gasp. He places one more kiss against her pebbled nipple before raising his head and taking her lips in yet another searing kiss.

His fingers slide to the edge of her slip; his hand slides up her leg as she clings to him. And her hands fall from their place on the back of his neck to tangle with his, and she actually assist him in lifting up the slip so it is bunched around her waist. One hand of his cups her naked hip while the other trails up her silky inner thigh to cup her through her panties.

The shudder that wracks through her body forces him to break from the kiss, to take a deep breath and reach desperately for some small measure of control to keep him from ravishing her. Her breathing is ragged, her lips swollen and parted as he pulls down her panties. She looks almost embarrassed when he stops staring at her curls and finally looks up at her.

"It's okay," he assures her, placing a soft kiss against her lips. "I've got you, and we can stop whenev –"

"No," she shouts forcefully. Her voice drops with the next few words from her lips, a small amount of hesitation slipping in. "Just be…I'm a…"

She trails off awkwardly, unsure of what to say or do until something surges within in and she presses her lips to his. She is sure, so very sure that she does not want him to stop. Her breath hitches as he eases a finger into her; the air rushes from her body as he reaches deeper. Her fingers sink into his back through his clothes, but he is too focused on how slick and wet and hot she is to care about how tightly her nails are digging in. He wants nothing more than to sink his aching erection into her.

Their gazes locked, he presses deeper and strokes her until her eyes close and the coil in her belly wounds tighter and tighter. He wants to make this good for her, but she is fumbling with the button of his pants and he is not sure how much longer he can wait. She is gasping, twisting, and urging him to continue his ministrations as he fumbles for the wallet in his back pocket. He blindly searches for the foiled package; his eyes shut involuntarily as her hand ghosts across the bulge in his pants.

"Chuck," she growls when his hand slips from her dripping sex. She demands rather than pleads, and he can't help but smile at the difference.

He lifts her up with one arm wrapped around her waist, uses his free hand to pull down his pants so they puddle around his shoes. His fingers return to her heat, stroking and sliding as he tears open the package with his teeth. He fumbles with the latex, hisses when he feels her small fingers brush against his to help him roll the condom on. His hands return to her hips, holding her steady as his eyes ask her what he verbally cannot before he nudges into her entrance.

The heat is blinding for them both, and they both groan at the sensation. He pauses, watches her watching him watch her as he presses deeper. Releasing her hip, he spreads his hand over her ass and eases her forward.

"Wrap your legs around my hips," he instructs as he helps lift her up with his hands.

She drags in a breath as she does as she told. Cradling her with both hands, he presses inch by inch deeper in, relishes in the feeling of her body giving, accepting, and taking him in. Her eyes remain locked on his as their bodies come together. He waits for her to wince or shut her eyes or yelp from the pain but she never does.

Only when he finally embeds the last inch of himself inside her does she catch her breath, close her eyes, and savor the moment. He waits for her – watching, knowing, and feeling – and only when her lashes flutter up and she again meets his gaze does he move.

Slowly.

His heart is thundering, and desire pounds in his veins. But he keeps a tight rein – the moment too precious to lose. The intimacy between them is startling, unlike anything he has ever felt before as he draws back slowly, fills her again, and watches her eyes darken even more. He repeats the movement, attuned to her needs and desires.

Ones he needs to sate even more than own.

She bucks against him, rejecting his slow pace and urging him on. He acquiesces only after he is sure that she is sure, hears her breath strangle and watches her come apart in his arms. He listens to her cries until he has to kiss her to mute the telltale sounds from Arthur's ears. It is the sweetest symphony he has ever heard, one he wants to keep all to himself.

He holds her, sinks deeper into her body as she shudders, fractures, and climaxes about him. Feels fleeting surprise when she takes him with her because he normally has longer staying power than this. The deeply fulfilling dance slows and halts even as the limo does not, leaves them locked together, breathing hard with foreheads touching. The thudding in their hearts mingles and fills their ears as gazes touch, lips brush, and breaths mingle.

He is sheathed completely in her clinging heat, feels no desire to move, to break the spell. Her arms are locked about his neck, her legs locked about his hips, and she is making no effort to shift, to edge away, to leave him. She seems more vulnerable than the girl she was before the stage, more dazed than he.

"Are you alright?" He whispers the words, watches her eyes focus.

"Yes," she replies in soft exhalation. She licks her lips, looks briefly at his before clearing her throat. "That was…"

"Amazing," he fills in.

She meets his gaze, knows better than to nod as she wonders at the madness, the hunger, the raw need that has gripped her. His eyes are dark, but not nearly as sharp as they usually are. He seems to sense her wonder, and his lips touch hers in reply.


	4. Part Four

She slips out of his grasp despite his protests, reminds him that he once said he wouldn't need instructions on how to find her before hurrying into her building. He watches her from behind tinted glass, waits for her to be safely ensconced inside before he lowers the partition and instructs Arthur to drive him home.

Yet she seems surprised when he finds her exiting a church wearing all black, almost as surprised as he is to find her there. She tells him to go away, a type of cat and mouse game that he might be willing to play if it means she avoids him over breakfast. She explains that she is headed to the jewelers to put something on hold for her birthday for purchase by her mother and Nate.

The last name enrages him because they are broken up, because without that vital piece of the puzzle he would be just as bad as her best friend – screwing their respective best friend's fiancé behind their respective best friend's back. And then she's talking about getting back together with Nate, and the truth is sitting just on the tip of his tongue ready to be exposed.

"I don't think your best friend would still be your best friend if he knew," she informs him.

"If he knew how much I enjoyed the removal of a certain chastity belt in the back of this very limo?" He throws the question, the reminder back at her. She glares at him, steps toward his limo and stares him down through the gap in the window.

"From this moment forward, the events of last night will never be mentioned again, is that clear?"

"Not as clear as the memory of you purring in my ear, which I have been replaying over and over."

"Well, erase the tape," she snaps, "because as far as I'm concerned, it never happened."

"I'll see you at your party tonight," he calls after her.

"You are officially uninvited."

"Never stopped me before!"

He glares at her as she walks away from him, her hips swaying in that tantalizing way as he is left to wonder what exactly changed from last night. It's all he can do not to jump out of the limo, grab her, and demand answers because he thought the events of last night – the way she danced and moaned for him – were pretty clear. After all, she broke up with Nate, she came to his club, she rode in his limo, she kissed him, and she said she was sure.

* * *

He arrives at her penthouse long after the party is supposed to start (and probably closer to when it should be over) only to find the place completely empty. A woman with suspicious eyes and a perfectly pressed uniform tells him that the party has been cancelled, that Miss Blair is not available to guests. But he can spy her sitting in the dining room, about to pop a grape in her mouth but frozen in place. He steps around the maid, ignores her indignant protests as he strides towards her employer.

"Are you ready for your present?"

She greets him with eyes crinkled in anger, dismisses the maid with a barked demand and drops the grape in hand onto the platter of birthday cake in front of her.

"What are you doing here, Chuck?"

"I came for the party," he informs her as he gestures around the empty room. "Is it over already, or did no one come?"

"It was cancelled, which you would have known had you actually been invited," she haughtily informs him.

"I told you the lack of invitation wouldn't stop me," he reminds her.

He's about to ask her if he can have a slice of cake, to ask her why the party was cancelled when the buzz of her phone distracts them both. The way she lunges for it immediately tells him exactly who she thinks the call might be from, and he watches curiously as her face falls and she rejects the call.

"Waiting for someone to call?

"If you must know," she sighs out, "I'm waiting for Nate to call. He always calls me at midnight on my birthday."

Always seems like a particularly strong word considering they have been dating for only one of her birthdays in the past.

"I wouldn't count on it tonight," he informs her, taking a seat at the table across from her. "You are broken up, after all."

She swallows the lump in her throat at his words, places her phone back on the table beside her and shoots him a dirty look. He returns it with his own pointed glance at her bare ring finger, and she drops her left hand back in her lap when she realizes what he is insinuating. The ring is upstairs in her purse from last night, and the fact that she forgot to put it on means nothing.

"Whatever he's doing, wherever he is, he will call at midnight. You'll see."

"Care to make a wager?" He asks her, leaning forward on the table so his face is closer to hers than is appropriate for an engaged woman and her fiancé's best friend. "If he calls, I'll leave you alone forever. If he doesn't, you spend the night with me."

"I will not," she decries indignantly.

"Thought you were sure."

She weighs his proposal in her mind, mistakenly places her faith in the wrong man.

"You're going to lose. He's never missed my birthday."

"Well, at least I'll get to enjoy one type of dessert tonight," Chuck replies as he snatches her fork from in front of her and plunges it into the elaborate cake.

"You make me nauseous," she informs him.

He offers her a shrug, shovels a forkful of cake in his mouth and moans at the taste. It's not that great, certainly not as good as the other dessert seated at this table, but he exaggerates the moment with a swipe of his tongue across his lips just for her.

The action is just too much, and she stomps off in a huff up the stairs to what he can only suppose is her bedroom. The woman who greeted him earlier, if he can put it that way, bustles into the dining room and glares at him. But he just smirks at her, digs his fork into the cake, and takes another bite.

At three minutes after midnight, after she hasn't come down to claim victory and kick him out, he ascends the stairs and finds her curled up on her bed staring at her phone. The joke about coming to collect is swallowed as he sees the expression on her face, as he watches her sit up and attempt to dismiss him.

"I'm not in the mood, Chuck. This is pretty much the worst birthday ever."

"Maybe it can be salvaged," he replies as he pulls the black box from behind his back and takes a seat next to her on the bed. She tries to joke about the present being their sex tape, but he even can't manage a smile at that as he holds the present out to her and opens it.

"It's the Erickson Beamon necklace."

The response comes out like a breathy exhale, like the expensive necklace she put on hold is only a dream. He moves to remove the necklace from the box, but she shifts away from him just slightly as he raises it up.

"No, I can't."

"Yes," he tells her. "You can."

He hooks the necklace around her neck, adjusts the pendants until they lay just right around her neck and tries to banish all thoughts of placing tender kisses against her neck.

"Something this beautiful deserves to be seen on someone worthy of its beauty," he informs her softly. Her hand comes up to grasp the necklace, and they both watch her movements in the full length mirror beside her bed.

"I really am sorry," he confesses because he is.

He wants her to be happy, wants to see the same carefree Blair that danced on stage last night. He twists his head so that he is looking at her rather than her reflection. His hand comes up to the largest pendant of the necklace, feels her fingers grasp onto his and he places the barest of kisses against her shoulder through her white robe.

She shifts against him, drops her head just as he raises his. It's an invitation, a calling, and he takes her lips with his before either of them can reconsider. His tongue strokes hers causing her to shiver delicately before kissing him back, and a feeling of unquestionable rightness settles over him.

This conviction drives him onward; makes him desperate to have her again, to demonstrate the increasing power of all that is growing between them. All this talk about how she has to be with Nate or the world will end is silenced as their bodies mold together, as the robe falls from her shoulders and the jacket falls off his.

There is no resistance, no reluctance on her part, and he closes his hand about her ass and shifts suggestively against her. Her hand tightens on the nape of his neck, drawing him closer to her so that he follows when she falls onto her back. He tugs on her lacy, lilac colored nightgown until the straps fall to her elbows and her breasts pop free. He strokes and licks each rosy nipple until her soft gasps become urgent and needy, until her back arches and her fingers cling to his skull.

Suppressing a triumphant smile, he slides further down the bed, raises her nightgown until her hips and stomach are exposed to him. He traces her curves; his fingers first trailing and then gripping to part her thighs and open her to him. He bends his head and places his lips against the patch of curls at the apex of her thighs.

Of course, neither of them notices the blonde woman in the doorway carrying a pint of ice cream and two Audrey Hepburn movies. Neither of them hears her gasp, registers her stepping back and yanking the door shut.

The noises of her actions are covered by Blair crying out, by Blair's fingers yanking and pulling at his hair to get him to stop. Her thighs clamp around his head as he licks and suckles, as she reacts to the fact that he is looking at her. No, tasting her.

"Chuck!"

His reply is muffled by her clamped legs, and he gingerly pries them apart before repeating that he thinks she will like this, before promising that he'll stop if she doesn't. He leans forward again with a wicked grin, savors the taste of her and the way she moans his name as he knowingly winds her tighter and tighter until she climaxes.

Tongue lapping up every drop, he works on freeing his erection from the confines of his pants and sliding on a condom before shifting, rising up and laying his body over hers. She is still quivering, still purring when he captures her lips with his and invites her to taste herself on him. She grips his back, nails sinking deeply as she wraps her legs around his waist and beckons him in.

Her spine bows as he enters her, driving her onward until she is clinging and sobbing, fracturing and falling as another climax rips through her. His speed increases until his jaw slacks into an 'o' and his own back bows as he stills inside her. He falls forward, places open mouthed kisses against her neck and relishes in the heat of the moment.

* * *

On Sunday, she tells her mother that she is returning to Yale when in actuality she spends the night at his suite at the Palace. Arthur drives her to New Haven on Monday morning, dropping her off on campus just in time for her class. Chuck surprises her on Wednesday, spends an uncomfortable night in a twin bed that must be anything but extra-long. He tells her that the limo is much more comfortable than this, takes her in the back of it on the drive from New Haven to Manhattan on Thursday afternoon.

"You've been with dozens of women," she smartly snaps as he rises up off his knees from the limo floor and shifts her so that his back is against the seat and she is sitting in his lap looking out the back window. "Are you always like this? Devoting yourself to their pleasure first rather than your own?"

She asks the question to distract him, or at least that is what she tells herself. Because there is no way she will confess that she also wants to know, wants to know if this is typical or atypical behavior of his. Surprisingly, a hint of wariness creeps into his eyes.

"I've always liked women," he replies as smarmy as he can muster. His hands slide back to her hips and he grips tighter as he starts to undulate beneath her. "You know that."

"Yes, but…"

She trails off barely able to cling to her sanity. Their combined movements are driving her harder, faster, and closer towards the edge. She gasps.

"That's not what I meant."

She senses that he would have sighed at her words, but he can't. Their bucking ride is affecting him, too. Chuck drags his gaze from the junction of her thighs, and meets her eyes. She blinks at him, determined to cling to her wits long enough to hear his answer. He fills his lungs – not easy in the face of all she is doing to him – and sighs with the realization that she will fall not over the precipice until she knows.

"With you, it's different. Not the same. It never is."

He has to pause, has to wait until she releases him again, long enough so some blood can reach his brain. He grits his teeth as she sinks slowly down again.

"No other woman has ever made me the feel the way you do."

Her eyes heavy-lidded, she looks down at him. In the dim lights of the limousine, her skin glows rosily.

"How do I make you feel?"

Her voice is sultry and heated, a temptation pouring fourth that he cannot resist.

"Desperate."

He tightens his hold on her hips, pulls her fully down on him, and holds her there as he thrust into her, once, twice – three times is all it takes and the climax that had crept up on her breaks and pours through her.

With a long, low moan, her spine gives away and she slumps forward. She barely manages to keep herself from collapsing into his chest, catches herself by bracing her elbows against his shoulders with her fingers still tangled in his hair. Their faces are barely inches from one another, the exhale of air off her lips as she tries to catch her breath assaulting his lips. Their eyes meet and she fleetingly studies his before she gives him a well-satisfied smile, leans closer, and covers his lips with hers.


	5. Part Five

**Author's Note: **There is a slightly modified quote from the fantastic movie "Love Actually" in this chapter.

* * *

She has brunch with her best friend on Saturday, and he sees his best friend on Sunday. Unlike her, he never has to address who his new bed partner is, never explains to Nate that the source of Blair Waldorf's new glow is multiple orgasms caused by his skilled caresses and kisses. He tells himself that he keeps it a secret because his friend has far too much on his plate, far too much family drama to worry about.

The charges against the Captain are serious; the van der Bilts are closing rank and leaving Nate and his family out in the cold. The company is in turmoil and Nate is trying to step up to the plate, but being interim CEO is harder than being a vice president when the nepotism is gone. And, besides, the only way to save the company now is to continue the deal with Waldorf Designs, and Eleanor Waldorf has put a hold on that because…

Just as soon as Nate's voice trails off Chuck realizes what Nate is implying. The only way to get Eleanor back on board is to get Blair back on board. Their broken engagement hasn't become common knowledge on the Upper East Side yet, but surely Eleanor must know that her daughter has been walking around Yale sans van der Bilt ring. (And, maybe, she already knows that her daughter has been walking around his suite sans clothes, too.) He tries to council Nate against pursuing Blair, tries to remind Nate that he does not miss her regardless of what he now thinks, and tries to instruct Nate not to fuck with a fucker.

Later, he heads to the Waldorf penthouse, interrupts Blair's studying, and they immediately begin making out on her bed like a couple of sixteen-year-olds. Clothes on. Hands wandering. He tells her she looked hot at the party they both happened to attend Friday night, tells her she would be so much more than an accessory on his arm.

"Yes, but I can't be on you, remember? Because you don't want Nate to find out. We don't want anyone to."

For a moment, he thinks about telling her to forget that part of their liaison, that he'll tell Nate if it means that he gets to have her on his arm at the next soiree. But she cuts off his thoughts with a searing kiss, pulling him up so she is seated in his lap.

"Besides, you have to learn to behave yourself first," she teases.

The ding of the elevator causes her to pause, and Dorota's announcement that Mister Nate is here for her causes him to drop back against the pillows in frustration. She slides off his lap, heads downstairs with the clack of her high heels as he eavesdrops from the shadows.

"I can't stop thinking about you," Nate informs her. "I know I've given you every reason to hate me –"

"True," she interrupts. "But keep going."

"If there any way you'll give me another chance?"

"Nate, after what you pulled on my birthday, the only thing we should be doing together is moving on."

Her response causes his heart to swell; causes hope to bubble up within him. But then Nate shows her some pin attached to a sweater he hasn't wore in a while, and he has to listen to her talk about him having her heart on his sleeve, listen to her tell him to keep it, listen to her agree to attend the Weidner's ball tomorrow night together.

He storms out of her room just as Nate steps into the elevator, brushes past her on the stairs, and ignores her asking where he's going. But she grabs his hand, tries to entice him back to her room to finish what they started. He shrugs her off, tells her that this thing where she has to be with Nate or the world will the end is getting old.

"You sound like a jealous boyfriend," she calls after him.

"Yeah, right," he snaps as he pulls on his coat. "You wish."

Their eyes lock together; hers burrowing deep inside him to see what he has been denying. She laughs, snorts at his response.

"No, you wish."

"Please," he replies as he presses the down button for the elevator. "You forget who you're talking to."

She laughs, snorts at his response again, and he's starting to get really tried of this particular reaction.

"So do you," she reminds him. Then, with a slight hesitation, she asks him a question. "Do you…like me?"

His whole body seizes at her question. He looks at her, looks away and fixates his gaze on the elevator doors as he waits.

"Define like."

His response is her answer, and she seems almost surprised at the suggestion.

"You don't like me," she reminds him with just a hint of disbelief in her voice. "You don't even talk to me. You always talk to Nate."

His jaw clinches his eyes narrow as he turns and steps closer towards her. She doesn't step back, doesn't cower under his harsh gaze.

"I'm talking to you now, aren't I? And do you really think I'd be driving to New Haven, sneaking around with you if I didn't? I'm Chuck Bass. I don't need to put up with your bullshit to get laid."

"My bullshit?"

"Yes," he snaps. "He loves me, he loves me not. You and Nate? It's over. Done."

She closes her eyes at his words, refuses to acknowledge them out of a sense of self-perseveration. She cannot believe what she is hearing any more than he can believe what he is saying.

"And you and I? I haven't slept. I feel sick like there's something in my stomach – fluttering."

"Butterflies?" She asks in complete disbelief. It's the only logical explanation yet completely illogical all the same because this is Chuck Bass, this is her escape from reality and the pressures of being perfect Blair Waldorf.

"Chuck, there is no you and I. We're just –"

"Fucking," he harshly fills in.

Her eyes widen at the term; it is so crash and crude compared to what they have been doing. The elevator doors open with a ping, and Chuck immediately steps inside. She watches him curiously, eyes still wide in surprise as the doors slide close.

"Chuck and Blair going to the movies," he says sardonically yet wistfully just before he disappears from her view. "Chuck and Blair holding hands."

* * *

The Weidner's winter ball is an annual affair, one that Chuck has not attended since he was seventeen and still a student at St. Jude's. He debates whether or not to attend, doesn't think he could possibly handle watching her with Nathaniel all night. But he goes because he is a masochist, glutton for punishment and dying to see her.

Of course, the pain that sears through him when spies them dancing together is nothing compared to seeing the van der Bilt ring back on her finger. He washes the bile back with a scotch or two, furls his fingers in fists as he watches her pretend to be something that she is not.

A malicious grin springs to his face when the dance ends and Nate sweeps across the room to ask Serena to dance. The blonde woman seems uncomfortable; the brunette watching across the room seems apprehensive. He seizes the moments, doesn't even ask before grabbing her hand and leading her out to the dance floor.

"Chuck," she exhales. "Stalk me much?"

"I know how much you like to dance," he reminds her with a smirk. She glares at him, glances over his shoulder to make sure that no one is listening to their exchange.

"Stop it," she hisses. "I'm here with Nate."

"Oh, I've noticed," he replies. His hand yanks her arm from around his neck; his fingers fondle the heavy ring back on her finger. "Yesterday you were ravishing me and now look at you – the paradigm of virtue and perfection."

Her breath catches in her throat; her head swims. She has no idea what to say, loses all thought as he leans forward and whispers sultrily in her ear.

"It's all a lie, though, isn't it? You and I both know the real you – the cool exterior, the fire below."

His fingers clutch onto hers, and he tugs her closer to him so that their waltz becomes more of a rumba – hot, steamy, and oh so close.

"I…," she stutters, stumbles as she glances at the ring on her finger. "I'm engaged."

His eyes flare angrily, dangerously, and his question comes out more of a hiss than anything else.

"Doesn't it strike as, uh, just a bit of a coincidence the timing of everything?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Nate suddenly decides he suddenly wants to get back together just moments after your mother puts the breaks on her deal with the Captain?"

"So, you're saying that Nate is only pretending to like me when he is actually using me to get to my mother? He wouldn't do that."

"Yes, he would," he informs her, reminds her. "If it was to help his family, you know he would."

"Nate loves me," she replies. "You think that just because you two were friends in high school, because I went to your club and lost my mind that you know everything about us, but you don't."

"I know you don't belong with Nate. Never have, never will."

"You don't belong with anybody," she hisses. Anger clouds his vision, and he looks at her with complete disdain.

"This illusion of being delicate and untouched? Face it, Blair, you've like one of the Arabians my father used to own – rode hard and put away wet. I can't imagine why anyone, especially Nate, would want you."

"This thing between us?" She snaps as she rips herself away from him before the song ends. "It's over."

She rushes away from him, heads straight towards Nate and plants a searing kiss across his lips. His best friend seems surprised, even more so after Blair audibly whispers for him to take her now. He grabs her hand, leads her towards the empty room across the hall, and throws a wink in Chuck's direction when he spies his best friend watching them.

* * *

He flees to Monaco, spends the next three weeks getting wasted, fucking any willing woman he can find, and ignoring the blistering messages from his father demanding that he stop screwing around and start shaping up. He thinks he is just about over it when he pulls up the _New York Times_ and reads about a night out with Blair Waldorf, accompanied by her doting fiancé Nathaniel Archibald. He goes on the biggest bender of his life, dials Nate and invites him to Monte Carlo for Christmas in a drug and alcohol-induced stupor.

Nate arrives, assumes the source of Chuck's problems are his father. He commiserates, talks about how difficult it is to do everything the Captain wants him to, how hard it is to be Nathaniel Archibald. And Chuck wants to laugh mockingly because Nathaniel Archibald has the looks, the money, the name, and the girl. His father may be in rehab and he may not have been prepared to take over the company so quickly, but he is weathering a storm while Chuck has been left to drown.

Except his inebriated state keeps him surprisingly tightlipped, and he doesn't tell Nathaniel off the way he wants to, doesn't ask Nate if he knew Blair faked her virginity for him. Instead, he passes his friend the joint and relishes in the feeling of the blow coursing through his veins. This is the kind of drug he can handle; this is the kind of pain he can accept.

Bart's beefy handlers are the only things that manage to drag him back to the city after the New Year. His father is pissed at him for disappearing, for doing a complete one eighty from his former self and his attempts at impressing his father with his business plan for Victrola. So he is dragged into his father's study in his penthouse at the Palace, forced to sit in front of Big Bad Bart and take his punishment like he is four-years-old and been caught coloring on the walls again.

(He wanted a purple room. His father had said no. What else was he supposed to do?)

His father goes through the same speech, the same spiel about how much of a disappointment Chuck is, how much embarrassment he brings to the Bass name and Bass Industries. He is only half listening when the true reason why his father forced him to return from Monaco is dropped in his lap.

"Eleanor Waldorf came to see me earlier this week. I know what you've been doing with her daughter, Blair."

"No doubt thanks to your PIs."

"Charles," his father's voice warns gravelly.

"She and I are done. I tortured her and got bored. We've moved on."

"There's no moving on just yet," Bart snaps. "Eleanor came to see me because Blair's pregnant."

"What?"

"And, according to my PIs, there was a strong possibly that you're the father so –"

"No," Chuck snaps. "We used a condom."

"Condoms break, Charles," his father replies, dropping his voice maliciously. "I should know."

"Well, unlike you, I handle my business. Apparently, Nate doesn't. It's him Eleanor should be talking to."

"Nathaniel Archibald is not the father," Bart informs him, sliding a piece of paper across his desk for his son to read. A quick glance and even with the medical mumbo-jumbo the answer is clear as day.

_Father: Charles Bass._

The color drains out of his face; the pounding headache from his hangover grows stronger. He is focused on the paper, gingerly lifts it up and reads the words over and over again so that he barely registers his father's words.

"Eleanor and I have already decided on the appropriate course of action. Blair will take the semester off from Yale and go and stay with her father. Everyone will be told that she is studying abroad and then, after the baby is born, she will return home and continue to live out her life. You will stay here, busy yourself with that Victor club I have purchased for you, and leave her alone. If you don't, well, there is always Moscow or Australia."

The final part is a carrot dangled in front of him, meant to entice him and placate him into to follow the plans made by his father and her mother. Except one key part is missing from this story their parents are weaving, and his mouth feels parched as he asks.

"And the baby? What happens to the baby?"

His father sighs, eyes him as though he cannot believe Chuck is even asking this question.

"Eleanor has already contacted an agency. The baby will be placed with a good family."

He recoils at his father's words, at the implication of what 'placed' and 'agency' mean. He tries to leap to his feet, tries to be bigger and taller than his father in a display of male plumage. But the effects of the alcohol and drugs still make him stumble, still make him appear weak.

"And what about what Blair and I want? What if we want to keep our baby?"

"Look at yourself, Charles. You're drunk, high, jonesing for your next fix. You aren't cut out to be a father. Blair is a nice girl. A good girl. She has a bright future ahead of her. She shouldn't have to pay for one mistake for the rest of her life."

"You don't know her," Chuck hisses as he stumbles out of the room. "And you don't know me."


	6. Part Six

He alternates between guzzling water and mouthwash as Arthur drives him the short distance from the Palace to the Waldorf penthouse. The sun is already setting, the darkness creeping over the city as he strides into the Waldorfs' building. The doorman attempts to stop him, but he ignores him as he steps into the elevator. He isn't sure what exactly he is going to say, just knows that he needs to see her.

Dorota – a woman that resembles more an attack dog than a maid – is waiting for him. Sharply informs him that she told the doorman no visitors, informs him that Miss Blair is not available to guests right now. He slips past her, ignores his indignant protests as he calls out her employer's name and heads straight for her room.

Everything is perfectly arranged. Her bed is made, her towels hung on the rack in her en-suite bathroom. But her expansive shoe collection and her clothes are packed neatly in suitcases on the floor of her closet. Her blue journal – the one she thinks she hides so well – and the book she was reading are gone off her nightstand. Her brush, comb, signature fragrance – the pieces that make this Blair Waldorf's room – have disappeared.

"Where is she?"

The footsteps behind him stop at his question, but the trademark scent of Eleanor Waldorf wafts over to him regardless. He turns sharply on his heels, demands with his stance and his eyes that Eleanor tell him exactly where she has gone.

"I told your father that you were to leave her alone. We don't need you making more messes in my daughter's life as we try to clean things up."

"We don't need your help," he snaps.

"No?" She asks with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms. "You've been nowhere to be found for weeks, too busy boozing and fraternizing to care about what you've done to my daughter."

He pushes past her, ignores her dirty looks as he flees from the apartment. He doesn't need her condemnation, hates himself enough already without her piling on the guilt. Dorota watches him warily as he punches the call button for the elevator, looks away just as soon as his eye catches hers.

She is his last hope, his last source of information before he will have to rely on a team of the private investigators that may or may not also be working for his father, which may or may not thwart his every attempt at finding her.

"Dorota," he beckons softly. The maid glares at him, annoyed that he has the gall to try and use his "bedroom voice" on her after what he has done.

"If KGB can't get me to talk, Chuck Bass has no chance."

"Please, Dorota," he says, switching tactics and tones. "I know I've hurt her, but this is my baby. Our baby. Please, tell me where she is."

"She leave for plane," Dorota mummers softly as the doors to the elevator slide open.

"LaGuardia? JFK? Newark?" He scrambles for the names of airports he never flies into, scrambles to get an answer out of the Polish woman who is pushing him into the elevator. Then, just as the doors slide shut, he hears his answer.

"Private."

And then he knows; knows exactly what role is father is playing in all of this. His head feels clearer; his feet tap impatiently as the elevator descends to the ground floor. Arthur is waiting for him by the car, and Chuck barks out instructions for him to take him to the heliport downtown immediately.

The drive takes forever; he feels like he is going to be sick as he watches the minutes tick by on the clock. He yells at Arthur to go faster, is already flying out of the limo before it can come to a complete stop when it arrives at his destination.

The helicopter is still here; he can see an assortment of men loading her bags into the helicopter and scans the helipad until he sees her standing next to a tall, leggy blonde off to the side. He strides towards her, watches her extradite herself out of Serena's arms and her eyes widen in surprise at his appearance.

"Chuck," she whispers.

The words are caught in the wind, pulled directly into her best friend's ears so that the blond whirls around and tries to stand protectively in front of her friend. He glances straight past her, refuses to see anyone but the brunette watching him in disbelief.

"Blair," he beckons.

Her eyes close at her name; she swallows the lump in her throat before asking Serena to give them a minute. Her friend squeezes her hand, promises to stand right over there in case she needs her.

"Are you done trying to destroy my life?" Blair asks icily when they are finally alone.

"Look, I should have never said those things to you."

"Oh, you mean when you compared me to a sweaty horse? Or when you insinuated that Nate was just using me for my mother?"

He opens his mouth, closes it. Tries to think of something to say that will take away those words because while the second one is true – and they both know it, even if she doesn't want to acknowledge it – she could never be a sweaty horse.

"Well, you won," she declares contemptuously. "You turned me into a brood mare. Nate won't even look at me."

He glances from her face to her hand, sees that the van der Bilt engagement ring is missing from her finger. She follows his gaze, curls her fingers into her palms so he cannot see her shame.

"I was scared," he offers. "Okay? You kept going back to him, and I was scared that I was the only one who felt it."

"Felt what?"

"This," Chuck whispers, stepping forward and splaying his hand across her flat belly. His thumb strokes lightly, and even through her heavy winter coat she can feel the heat. "Please don't leave."

"I have to," she replies.

"You don't."

"Why?" Her eyes search for his, search for some kind of recognition between the two of them. "Give me a reason and 'I'm Chuck Bass' doesn't count."

"Because you don't want to," he informs her as he brushes his free hand against her clench fist. He pulls out her fingers, tangles them in his own.

"Not good enough," she replies, shaking her head. His opens his mouth, voice cracks as he offers her another reason.

"Because I don't want you to."

"It's not enough," she tells him.

She shakes her head harder, looks away from his eyes and down at the hand splayed across her belly. The pause on his part, on her part causes her to look up, look directly into his eyes.

"Wha…what else is there?"

"The true reason I should stay right where I am and not get into that helicopter. Three words, eight letters. Say it, and I'm yours."

"I…" He starts, swallows, and tries again. "I…"

"Thank you," she whispers. She steps away from him, pulls her fingers away from his and causes him to drop his hand from her belly. "That's all I needed to hear."

She turns away from him, heads straight into Serena's waiting arms and allows the blonde to escort her to the helicopter without a second glance in his direction. He watches the helicopter take off, makes no move to stop her. Serena moves first, glares at him as she walks past him to her waiting taxi.

"I won't forgive you for this," she bites out bitterly.

"Neither will I."

* * *

He drains the bottle of scotch Arthur keeps stocked in the limo for him on the ride back to the Palace. Stumbles out of the limo but rejects Arthur's assistance by shaking the man off and telling him that his chauffeuring services won't be needed any time soon. His employee eyes him warily, and Chuck is just about to tell him to fuck off when his body is slammed into the trunk of his limo.

"Whoa, man," he exclaims before he recognizes the face of the man who attacks him. He was about to offer money, but money would never be enough of a deterrent for Nathaniel Archibald.

"You slept with her!" Nate screams, fisting the lapels of Chuck's coat and slamming his against the trunk again. "You son of a bitch. I could kill you."

"Could we talk about this without your hands around my neck?"

"Did you get what wanted?" Nate hisses as his hands encircle around Chuck's neck and squeezes. "Like you do with all those other girls?"

He pushes Chuck against the limo one last time before letting go and walking away.

"Yes, Nathaniel!" Chuck screams after him. "I took what you kept ignoring."

"Oh, so somehow you screwing Blair for sport is my fault?"

"It wasn't for sport," he snaps. "She needed someone, and I was there."

"Oh, so you cared about her?"

He doesn't want to follow down that path, doesn't want to admit something Blair rejected just moments ago.

"You guys were broken up," he offers. Nate fumes, pushes him back against the limo.

"What? For how long? A week? An hour?" He and Chuck face off, stare each other down. "She was my fiancée, and you screwed her. She's having your baby when she should be marrying me."

"Look, I'm sorry, alright? I know how long you and I have been best friends, okay?"

"No, it's not okay, Chuck," Nate yells as he walks away from his former best friend. "From now on, you stay away from me."

"Nate!"

"Did you hear what I said? You stay the hell away from me, Chuck!"

The curious onlookers, the doormen of the Palace all watch him with enquiring eyes as his best friend walks away. Even Arthur is giving him a look of pity, and Chuck cannot take it anymore. He snaps at the crowd, tells them that the show is over before shoving a wad of cash in Arthur's hand and telling him to buy as much scotch as he can. His chauffer opens his mouth, prepares to say something. But Chuck walks away before he can say that he spoke to one of the grounds crew at the helipad and discovered that the Bass Jet carrying Blair Waldorf is headed to France.

* * *

Several days later he pulls himself out his downward spiral and throws himself into running Victrola. It's his consolation prize – a shitty one at that – but it is all he has while he bids his time. He stays away from Nate like his best friend asked, never attends another societal function least he runs into her mother or her best friend. He learns from Arthur that Blair was headed to France, but it's a big country and the trail runs cold.

Or, at least, that's what the private investigators tell him. There is no trace of a Waldorf in France, no listing for her or her father in any directory he can find. He has the sinking suspicion that the PI is lying to him, working for his father and passing along false information. But he has no idea where to start looking other than the universities who laugh at his horrible French and tell him that there is no Blair Waldorf in attendance.

A week passes. Then two, three, four. He finds himself reading about fetal development on his phone, ignores the burlesque dancers on stage as none of them hold a candle to her. He skips around, reads about multiple weeks at a time when the realization dawns that he has no clue as to her due date. She could have gotten pregnant when he first took her in the back of his limo or the last time they were together in the stacks of the library at Yale or any time in the roughly two weeks they were together.

(He also learns that you can get pregnant three to seven days after having sex, and the idea that he and Nate could have physically duked it out over Blair before he was slammed against the limo makes his head spin.)

She could be due any time in August, could be anywhere from thirteen to eleven weeks pregnant, could be rapidly approaching her second trimester and he would have no idea. His finger hovers over the messages button on his phone; he wants to text and ask her. But all his text messages, all his phone calls, all his emails have been ignored so far.

"Boss, we've got a situation."

His employee's voice interrupts his reverie, and he hastily shoves his phone into his pocket before Kevin the bouncer can see the page Chuck had just been looking at. He follows Kevin to the back office, listens as the man explains how one of the dancers spotted a middle-age man buying drugs in his club. The fastest way to get shut down, the fastest way to lose the one thing left in his life is to have the cops bust up his club for drug dealing, and he is completely prepared to ream the stockbroker out.

Until, that is, he sees just who the man is.

"I'll handle this," he tells Kevin, pulling out his phone and dialing the one person in this world who wants to talk to him less than Blair.

His call is ignored; his second is met with a harsh bark and a demand to lose this number. But the background noise tells him exactly where he is, and he dispatches Kevin to assist Arthur is picking up the man on the phone.

"I told you to leave me alone, Chuck. Not dispatch your goon squad to come and pick me up."

"I need to talk to you," Chuck replies, taking a step towards his friend. Nate rolls his eyes, turns to walk away. "Your father is here."

Nate doesn't respond, appears completely unaffected by the knowledge that his father is philandering at a burlesque club.

"One of my employees saw him making a deal," Chuck fills in when Nate does not respond. "It looked like drugs."

"My father is clean, Chuck," Nate snaps, pushing against Chuck's chest with his hand.

"I know you hate me," Chuck replies. "I was in love with Blair, and I'm sorry. But we do not have time to argue about this."

Nate glares at him, glances from his former best friend to the office where his father is being kept on ice. The older gentleman seems anxious, nervous as he checks his watch over and over again and paces the room. His emotions are only amplified when Nate steps into the small, crowded room.

"Dad, what the hell are you doing here?"

"I left you a note at home," his father replies before explaining that the note says how sorry he is. Nate steps closer to his father, informs him that it will be okay if he has relapsed, that he will get him some help.

"I wasn't buying drugs," the Captain protests as he pulls something out of his pocket to show it to his son. "I was buying this."

From his spot by the door, Chuck can see the familiar blue cover of the American passport, knows exactly what the Captain is planning even before Nate can ask him.

"I'm going to be a much better father to you from Dominica than I would be from jail."

"Dad, I know you're scared, but we'll get through the trial."

"No, we won't. I'm guilty, Nate. I'm facing twenty-five years."

The severity of the Captain's trial was long ago swept under the rug, hushed up by the van der Bilts and their extensive network of relatives and indebted friends on the Upper East Side. Lip service had been given by everyone, phrases like "looking up" and "working out" a near constant tape in their lives. Nate asks after Anne, seems horrified that his mother is assisting in this scheme and that it has been kept from him.

"I need you to step up right now," the Captain adds. "Be the man of the family for your mother."

"It's been that way for a while now," Nate replies. He turns and starts to walk away from his father when his father reaches out and grabs his shoulder whilst calling his name. His fist clinches; he swings and decks his father to the floor.

"That's for Mom," he spats out before walking out the door and away from Chuck.

The later watches the Captain stumble to his feet, allows him to slide past him and out of his club with stopping him. He becomes an accessory to the Captain's crimes in that moment but doesn't care as he barks for his employees to return to their jobs and sets out to find Nate.

He finds the blonde standing outside the entrance to Victrola, away from the crowd waiting to get in, hiding in the shadows. He waits for Nate to make the first move, waits for Nate to tell him that it is okay that he is here.

"Thank you," Nate says after a moment.

"It's your dad," Chuck replies. "It's bigger than all the other stuff."

Nate closes his eyes, nods his head at Chuck's words as he tries to figure out what to say to the man that stole his fiancée. He shakes his head, looks his former best friend right in the eye and offers up his own apology.

"I'm sorry," he states and offers out his hand. "For all of it."

Chuck accepts the gesture, shakes his hand and expresses his own apology. Things are not entirely repaired between them, but Chuck's earlier declaration keeps playing in Nate's ears and he can still see the pain on his best friend's face despite the smile.

"So you said you loved her."

Chuck looks away, looks at the ground and nods his head.

"That's, uh…," Nate trails off. "Never heard you say that before. About anyone."

"It doesn't matter now," Chuck replies. "She's gone, and I have no idea where to find her."

Chuck looks away, hates the way that his voice breaks. He starts to say something more, starts to pour out all the anguish and frustration he has about this situation when Nate's voice cuts him off.

"Lyon."

His attention is snapped back to his friend, captivated by the name of a city in east-central France. He has never been particularly good at geography, but he has become intimately acquainted with the map of France in the last few weeks.

"What?"

"Her father and his partner, Roman Garrel, own a vineyard outside of Lyon. If she is anywhere, it's probably there."

The information is his own apology; his own acquiesce to the idea that Chuck loves his former fiancée. His best friend seems startled by the information, rooted in spot at the idea that he might finally be able to find her. It falls on Nate to tell him to go, and he watches as Chuck fumbles for his phone and makes arrangements to be on the next commercial flight to Lyon. It must be love, Nate muses, if Chuck Bass is willing to fly commercial, make a plane change in London in order to be there tomorrow by noon.


	7. Part Seven

She has taken to the walking through the vineyard after lunch every day. Her nausea is abated by then, replaced with an increasing frustration with the way Roman hovers over her. She tries to be gracious, appreciate his willingness to bring her crackers and tea in bed to help abate the nausea, but his attention starts to feel more like smothering by the time she sits down to lunch.

Harold has taken the opposite approach. They have not once discussed her pregnancy, glossing over it even as he asks her how she is enjoying Yale and if she is excited to return in the fall. Of course, that requires her baby to come right on his or her due date, for her to follow her mother's plan to the letter.

Serena had forced her to stop living in denial, forced her to take the test and then the next one. Her fervent wish as she sat in front of the Bethesda Fountain and opened the envelope had been that her fiancé would be the father of her baby. But two words – mirror images of her own first and middle initials – had dashed her hopes and changed the course of her life forever. Serena sat with her, held her hand as she informed her mother just as she had done for Serena when videos of her party days were posted on the internet by her ex-boyfriend and Serena was forced to tell Lily.

Now, however, Serena is nowhere to be found, and Blair lives a life of oppressing loneliness. The time zone differences coupled with Serena's trademark flakiness means conversations – the deep, personal ones she needs to have – are infrequent and short. She has no other friends in Lyon, exists only to her doctor as Blair Garrel.

Even Handsome and Cat seem to prefer the company of her father and Roman, respectively, than they do hers. Her one overnight to Paris – Roman and Harold's attempt to cheer her up – ended in tears when she entered her favorite shops and found that she no longer fit into the size she has been since she was fourteen.

So she walks through the vineyard alone day after day and dreams about what might have been. Her daydreams resemble what once would have been her nightmares, and her thoughts are dominated by him. He had broken her down with malicious words, had left her behind to face the firing squad of her mother alone.

She hates him for it.

After an hour, she turns and heads back towards the house. Any longer and Roman will surely come looking for her. She is nearly back to the chateau, can see the house in the distance when she sees the shadowy figure of a man walking alongside the vineyard.

She pauses, smoothers her fear, and calls out to him in French that he is trespassing on a private residence. Except the man appears undeterred as he steps towards her and allows the sun to illuminate his entire profile better.

"Chuck."

The name tumbles out in a near whisper. His profile, his face is unmistakable to her. She turns on her heels, strides towards the house and tries to get away from him. But he is faster and she is pulled against him so that her back is pressed against his chest, his hand is holding hers against her side, and his other hand is ghosting across her stomach to the small bulge that is concealed by an oversize dress and yellow sweater.

"Blair."

His voice comes out as a whisper, as a beckoning call against her ear. He wants to punish her, wants to yell at her for disappearing without even assuring him that she and the baby are okay. He wants to take her, wants to loose himself in her heat and warmth. He strokes her belly, grasps her hand tighter, holds her close as though he is afraid she is just a dream and will disappear again.

"What are you doing here?"

She means for the words to come out a dismissal, but his ministrations turned her to jelly. Easily manipulated, pliable, and weak.

"I'm fighting for us," he mummers against her neck. He places an open-mouth kiss against her neck, and she spins out of his hands at the sensation so that she is now standing apart from him, facing him.

"What us?"

"The 'us' that is not just you and me, but you, me, and our baby."

"There is no 'us', Chuck. There is you, there is me, and there is the baby."

"You're wrong. You and I? There has always been Chuck and Blair, even when you were with Nate. Please, just give me a chance."

"I did," she cries out, tears welling up in her eyes. "I stood there on the helipad and begged you to say how you felt, and when you didn't I wanted to die."

She frantically wipes away the falling tears, crosses her arms across her breasts as he watches her with hesitant eyes. She takes a deep, shuddering breath before opening her mouth, prepared to tell him good-bye.

"Blair," he says.

His voice cracks and trembles. Her eyes flash and meet his, anticipation welling up in her chest. He moves closer, takes her hand in his. His touch threatens to shatter her control, but then his thumb strokes her knuckles and an indefinable warmth – soothing, reassuring – floods through her.

"I…" he pauses, takes another breath. "I love you."

"You…you love me?"

"Yes," he says softly. "And I'm…I'm going to love our baby as much as I love you."

He steps closer yet, slides his arms around her and draws her back his embrace. He searches out her lips with his own, feels stunned when she turns her head so his lips land against her check.

"Stop fighting it," he instructs darkly. "Stop fighting me."

"I'm trying," she replies.

She presses her body, their baby against him, fists her hands against the back of his suit coat and meets his eyes with her own.

"I wanna believe you. But you've hurt me so many times."

"I love you," he repeats for the third time.

"Then show me."

* * *

He knows her well enough to know that he has not be given a license to take her on the ground of her father's vineyard in attempt to show her how he loves her. So he holds her close, breathes in her scent and waits until she shivers from the cold and offers to escort her inside. She blushes as his fingers search for her own in an attempt to hold her hand as she leads him towards the house.

A man with dark hair is watching them from the window, fails at pretending like he wasn't spying when they enter the house. For a moment, Chuck thinks that maybe this is Blair's father, but the complexion is all wrong.

"Chuck," Blair introduces, "this is Roman, my…"

She trails off awkwardly. She has never been sure of how to introduce Roman. She used to call him her father's lover in a scathing voice when he first entered her life because it made it sound temporary. But stepfather is too personal, too inaccurate for their relationship. Roman will never be her stepfather, not after he so cruelly ripped her father from her life.

"Roman," Blair introduces, "this is Chuck, my…"

She trails off awkwardly. Again. She has no idea how to introduce Chuck. He was once her lover. He is now the biological father of the baby she carries. But she has no idea what he is to her, not after his declarations in the vineyard, not after all that has happened between them.

Chuck offers out his hand; Roman rejects it. Instead, he turns his attention to his stepdaughter and reminds her of her appointment in Lyon this afternoon.

"Maybe you want to bring your friend with you to the doctor's?"

The question is asked not in English but in French, purposefully done so as to exclude Chuck from the conversation. Blair shrugs her shoulders in response, glances up to look at Chuck who has been watching the whole exchange with a clinched jaw.

"Maybe it is best if he stays here," she replies in French with a perfect accent. She switches back to English, explains to Chuck that he is welcome to wait here while she runs into town for a few hours.

"Wait," he replies, grabbing her wrist and stopping her in her tracks. "I want to come with you. My French is rusty, but even I know the word for doctor."

She glances from him to Roman, sees the older man shrug his shoulders. He doesn't have the answer for her; she doesn't have the answer for herself. But Chuck is looking at her so expectantly, so hopefully that she finds herself nodding in agreement.

She half expects to find a limo waiting for his return, smiles slightly when she sees that he hasn't let her down. The large car is impractical through the narrow streets of European cities, but he scoffs in reply as she imparts the information upon him.

"I know how much you love a limo," he replies with a smirk as he places his hand on the small of her back and helps her into the car.

The ride is silent; the two sitting side by side without touching. It is the exact opposite of every other ride she has taken in his limo. The only similarity being the heat that radiates between the two of them. The country landscape quickly morphs into the city as they speed towards the doctor's office in Lyon.

"Blair," he softly calls to her, drawing her attention from the changing landscape to his face. "When…when are you due?"

She raises an eyebrow in surprise, thought for sure that his father or her mother would have told him. Clearly, he knew some parts of the plan Bart and Eleanor patched together, knew enough to show up at the helipad and again at her father's home in France.

"August eighth."

A ghost of a smile flitters across his lips as he mulls over the information. A summer baby. The perfect complement to the fall and winter.

He follows her wordlessly into the doctor's office, understands immediately why he never could find her when she introduces herself as Blair Garrel to the receptionist. The whole exchange is conducted in French. She only uses English to snap at him and tell him not to read the scale when the nurse weighs her before they are shown an exam room. He watches her silently peel off her tights and adjust herself on the examination table before the doctor enters the room.

Introductions are brief, conducted by Blair in this country's native tongue, although he nods his head when the doctor asks if he is the baby's father. The man seems surprised yet pleased to see him, shakes his hand and calls him Mister Garrel. Chuck opens his mouth to correct him, but the doctor moves on with his examination.

His French is far too poor to really follow along, to really understand what the doctor is saying. The only word that jumps out to him is bébé; repeated over and over again without concern for him or his questions. Towards the end of the appointment, the doctor drapes a piece of fabric over Blair's lap and Chuck watches with wide eyes as she reclines backwards and lifts up her dress to expose her stomach.

The bump – tiny and small and previously a figment of his imagination – that he had his hand on only hours before is laid bare before him. His hand twitches with the need to touch it. He raises his hand, drops it back to his side when the doctor runs a wand over the bulge and the rapid noise of what sounds like a train fills his ears.

"Baby has good heartbeat, Mister Garrel," the doctor informs him in English. "Very strong."

He doesn't think just plants a kiss at Blair's lips before he can reconsider the action. Her eyes are closed when he pulls away, making it impossible for him to tell if his kiss is accepted or not. The doctor offers him a large smile, reminds Blair that he will see her in two weeks in French and tells Chuck he hopes to see him again in English before departing the room.

He watches with obvious anticipation as Blair shoves her feet into her shoes and her tights into her purse. She says nothing to him, just stomps out of the office and towards the waiting limo. She gets in without a word, won't even look at him as he offers her an apology.

"Can I…can I see it again?"

His question is a breathy exhale as the car leaves the doctor's office in the distance. She turns her head, looks at him in surprise. He takes this to mean she doesn't understand his meaning, and he gestures towards her stomach.

"Can I see you again?"

She hesitates, sighs before lifting up her dress to expose yellow Le Perlas pulled tight over her rounding frame. The dress is bunched up under her breasts as she watches him curiously, watches him place a shaking hand over her belly.

"You're beautiful," he mummers to her softly.

"Liar," she replies. He shakes his head no, expressing disagreement as his fingers stroke softly. Electricity sparks, and she closes her eyes at the sensation.

"I want it," he exhales. Her eyes fly back open; her dress drops so that is covering her again and trapping his hand against her waist. "I want this."

Her heart pounds wildly, harder still when their eyes meet.

"We'll take it slow. Do it right."

"I'm pregnant," she reminds him. "There is no slow."

"There is," he replies. "We'll do this at our own pace, figure things out together. And, if in the end, you want to follow your mother's plan, you can. But I want this and if I can't have it all, at least let me keep my baby."

She pushes away his hand, pushes him away as she slides to the farthest part of the limo. Her question comes out as snap, a wounding bite against him.

"And what about what I want?"

He looks at her, watches her; he shifts towards her, shifts away from her. She looks like a caged animal – angry and wild.

"Nobody has asked me what I want. My mother wants me to pretend like this never happened, wants me to put the baby up for adoption. My father wants me to go back to Yale. He won't even talk about this. And you – you want to keep this baby. Nobody has asked me what I want."

"What do you want then?"

The question hangs between them, feeding his anger until he pounces like she is his prey.

"You don't want me. That much is clear. Do you want this baby? Or do you just want Nate?"

"No," she roars. She pauses, blinks back her tears. "I don't know, okay? Everything happened so fast. I got pregnant, I lost Nate, I was sent to France. And then you showed up, acting like –"

"Like what?"

She waits, looks away from him in hesitation. He reaches out and tenderly touches her jaw, turns her head so that she is looking directly at him.

"I told you I love you. I've never said that anyone. Ever."

Her heart seizes, sputters, and jumps inside her chest. The air is pulled from her lungs, leaving her desperate and yearning.

"Is it real? Or are you just here out of some kind of fiduciary duty? If it's real, we'll figure it out. All of this. But if it's not –"

He cuts her off, refuses to hear any more nonsense from her lips as he crashes his into hers. He half expects her to fight him, half expects to feel the sting of her palm against his cheek. But, instead, she pushes against him until his back is against the leather and she is crawling into his lap. One hand strokes her cheek; the other travels down to stroke her through her panties with the back of his fingers.

He smiles against her lips when she mewls, turns his hand and slides his fingers under the waistband of her La Perlas and strokes the crisp curls at the apex of her thighs. She closes her eyes at the sensation, at the noise of his fingers tearing at the delicate fabric of her La Perlas until she is exposed to him.

He finds her entrance and circles, time and time again, until her breasts are heaving, until her finger tighten painfully in his hair. He slides one long finger into her then strokes slowly out, watches as she tries to catch her breath and chuckles when she shudders against him.

"So wet."

The words are hissed in her ear, a teasing reminder of just what he does to her. The tension holding her together does not ease as he presses in and strokes again, pushing her forward towards the abyss. He balances her there, leaves her teetering on the edge until she is begging him.

"Please."

He thrusts his fingers deep over and over; deeper still until she shatters. Letting her head fall back, she relishes in the waves of intense pleasure, relishes in the fact that he knows how to play her body better than she does. He spins the pleasure out and out until it fades, until she sighs and settles against him in anticipation of him releasing himself and taking what he wishes of her.

Instead, he holds her there – runs his hand down the sides of her mussed dress until he reaches her belly and splays his hand across her expanse. Concern is creeping into his eyes; she can see it even as he tries to deny it.

Bracing one hand on the leather interior, she lowers the other to flick open the button of his pants, slides her hand inside, and curls her fingers about him. His jaw clenches and she smirks against his cheek because she does this to him. She rocks her hips against him, springs him free, and sinks down as he thrust up.

No condom, no latex barrier between them and he knows that he will not last long. Not when he can feel her wetness, feel her stretch and take him in. Cling. Clutch. He thrusts once, twice – four times before he shatters without her. He slumps back against the seat, holds her in his arms. He is unable to move, too sated to care that she has made him hers.

She touches her forehead to his as her fingers tangle through his hair. Her actions beckon him to open his eyes, to look directly at her and see – something, anything, everything. He looks at her, holds her barely focused gaze with his own.

"I want you," he mummers softly. "In every way possible."

"Why?"

"Because of this," he replies as his lips feather kisses along the slope of her neck. "Because I'll never have enough of you."

She shifts against him, feels the sensation of him within her grow more definite and the hunger between them rise.

"Again?" She asks with stunned amazement in her voice.

"Again," he answers with a low growl.


	8. Part Eight

Her hair is falling out of its complicated arrangement so badly that she has to give up and pull out the pins that were previously holding her brown hair in place. Thankfully, she keeps a small case in her purse with a comb, mirror, and make-up for emergencies such as this. She pulls it out of her purse, smiles involuntarily when she sees him pulling his own case out from under the seat and fixing his own messed up hair.

Other than the creases in her dress, her ruined panties, and the post-orgasm glow on her face, no one would ever know what exactly the two of them had been doing on the drive from Lyon to her father's chateau. She'll need a bath when they get inside; the mixture of him and her between her legs becoming a sticky mess.

She's not exactly sure where there are going to go from here, hasn't asked him a single question about what his expectation of never having enough of her means. She leads him through the front door of her father and Roman's chateau and plans to lead him directly to her room, Roman's inquisitive looks be damned. But she enters the house to find her father, Roman, and her mother drinking tea in the living room.

"Mother," she stutters out. "What are you doing here?"

Her mother shifts in her seat to locate the source of the voice. A relieved look is quickly covered, replaced with disbelief at the sight of the man standing with her daughter.

"I was in Paris dealing with a problem at the atelier, but I think the better question is what Chuck Bass is doing here?"

Her father's eyes widen at the name. There was something oddly familiar about the man standing in his house, but Harold had not been able to place it until his ex-wife put a name to the face.

"Chuck came to…" she trails off, looks up at Chuck for support. "He came to discuss our, uh, situation with me."

"I thought we discussed everything we need to, Blair," her mother informs her as she rises to her feet.

"How could we? You never even asked me what I wanted."

"I'm your mother," Eleanor reminds her. "I'm just trying to –"

"Eleanor," Harold interrupts, rising to his own feet and placing a hand on his ex-wife's elbow. "Let's discuss this in my office."

"Daddy," Blair begins, but her father cuts her off with a disapproving look.

She's never seen that look on her father's face before, and it silences her immediately. Without a word, without a backward glance at Chuck, she follows her parents down the hallway and into her father's office. The door shuts behind them with an echoing click, leaving Chuck and Roman alone in the living room.

"Tea?"

"Do you have anything stronger?"

"Wine," Roman offers.

Chuck has never been a big fan of wine; scotch is his drink of choice. He accepts the tea, sits down in the chair that Roman suggest he occupy. He sips the drink although he is not particularly thirsty. His ears strain to hear the conversation currently going on behind closed does, but Harold and Roman's large home is surprisingly soundproof and he can hear nothing.

"Chuck?"

Roman's voice pulls his attention away from the hallway, and Chuck raises an eyebrow in acknowledgement of the French man.

"Do you know what my greatest regret is?"

Chuck has no idea, no clue why Roman is asking him such a question. He makes no move to hazard a guess, but it quickly becomes obvious that the question is rhetorical in nature.

"I love Harold. Love him so much that it hurts. But I allowed him to use me as an excuse to run away. He and I fled to France rather than staying in Manhattan and living through the scandal. At the time, I thought it was the right thing to do because he was so happy when we were together."

A soft smile flitters across Roman's features as he recalls the early days of his relationship with Harold. The secrets, the lies had all be worth it for those happy moments together.

"But every day I watch him live without his daughter. Every shop, every boutique we enter, I watch him pick out a dress and hang it back on the rack because he doesn't know if she will like it. Every time he walks past her room, I watch this wistful smile become a cold stare. She visits, yes. But she is the light of his life, and our decision to run away caused irreparable damage to their relationship. I will have to live with that for the rest of my life."

Roman pauses, looks at the cat curled on the sofa next to him before glancing back up to the man sitting across from him.

"I can see the way you look at her. You love her, no?"

His question becomes rhetorical because Chuck is not quite ready to announce his feelings to everyone. It scares him that everyone – everyone but the one who matters – can see the way he looks at her, scares him further that Roman is sharing something so intimate with him.

"Don't allow her to run away. Don't allow her to use this as an excuse. Make her fight, make her –"

His final edict is interrupted by the slam of a door, and the two unlike compatriots watch as she stomps right past them and out the front door. He glances at Roman, and the older man jerks his head to suggest that Chuck follow her.

He finds her sobbing near the edge of the vineyard. At the sound of his feet, she frantically wipes away her tears and yet refuses to face him. He stands off to the side behind her, waits for her to acknowledge his presence. She looks small and weak, not at all like the confident woman who once cut him down in the middle of a crowded bar, who once stripped off her clothes in front of a crowd, who once schemed and spied under the cover of darkness.

"I'd like to be alone, Daddy."

"Uh, it's not your dad," he replies softly.

She turns her head, looks at him over her shoulder, and tries to blink back the tears. He steps closer to her yet keeps his distance whilst he waits for her to speak. She opens her mouth, closes it as she turns away and stares out over the rolling landscape. The only sound is the rustle of the trees in the wind and the mutual pounding of their hearts.

"My mother just decides everything, you know? Everything in the world is just totally up to her."

"I know," he replies because he does. Everything in his life – from where he lives to what he does for work – is decided by his father. He gets the overbearing yet still distant parent who pretends control is love.

"Come back to New York with me."

The request tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it. Roman's talk combined with his own desires keeping him loose lipped. She whirls on her heels, nearly loses her balance as her shoes sink into the soft dirt.

"What?"

"Come back to New York with me."

"And do what? Live with you? I know enough about the Chuck Bass lifestyle to know that housing your baby mama would put a serious crimp on things. And living together isn't exactly taking things slow."

He hadn't thought about pushing for them to live together, hadn't thought much beyond getting her to come back to New York. But her suggestion does sound appealing even as she bites it out in anger. Going to be with her every night scares the shit out of him, but waking up next to her every morning sounds lovely. He grimaces at the word, or maybe he grimaces at her objection.

"We don't have to live together. You can stay at your mom's, or you can stay at the Palace. Hell, I'll even buy you an apartment."

She scoffs at his offer, grows angry with indignation at the suggestion. She is not one of those sluts on the side who gets pregnant with dollar signs in their eyes. She will not come crawling to him hoping for a massive windfall.

"I'm not your charity case. Just because you got me pregnant doesn't mean that I'm a gold digging whore looking to cash in big."

"Dammit, Blair, that's not what I'm saying," he snaps. "I'm not asking you to move in. I'm merely asking you to come back to New York so we can figure this out together."

"I can't," she replies.

"Why? Worried about your reputation? Or are you concerned that Nate won't want you after he sees you visibly pregnant with my kid?"

"That's not what this is about," she harshly states.

"No?" He cries out incredulously. "I tell you I want you. Hell, I tell you that I love you, and you just stand there. You said that we'd figure all of this out, but now you won't even try with me. I know I'm not Nathaniel fucking Archibald but –"

He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself as the anger courses through him. Nate Archibald is the Golden Boy, the measuring stick to which he has been compared to his entire life. His father would prefer him to be more like Nate; Blair would prefer him to be more like Nate.

But they don't know. They don't know the real Nate. The real Nathaniel Archibald gets high at the office, loves a good Lost Weekend, and cheats on his beautiful, fiery, amazing fiancée with her best friend and probably any other thing in a skirt.

"He cheated on you," he snaps. "He fucked your best friend at the Shepherd wedding."

He watches her, waits for her dispute his claims. But there is no anger in her eyes, no indignation over what he is saying. She is not asking him for proof, merely shifting her gaze from him to the ground. He clenches his fists, unclenches them as resignation courses through him.

"You knew," he hisses. "You knew that your so called perfect fiancé fucked your best friend, and you stayed with him. Is that why you came to me? Payback?"

"It wasn't like that," she protests. "I didn't expect –"

"What?" He decries in frustration as she fails to finish the sentence. "You didn't expect what? To have sex with me? To get pregnant? To develop feel—"

He cannot finish the words, cannot find it in himself to spat them out and throw them in her face. Because the fact of the matter is that he is clearly the only one who developed feelings here. She used him as payback, manipulated him into thinking he had a chance with her, and then tossed him aside when the van der Bilt ring waltzed back into her life. She used him like a Kleenex, manipulated him into saying something he has never said to anyone before, and would still toss him aside if Nate even glanced in her direction.

"I didn't mean…Nate and I – I was angry and hurt and you –"

"No," he cuts her off. He seethes at her suggestion that he used her, that he didn't try and do the honorable thing when she and Nate were engaged. "No! You came to me. You said you wanted to."

"I'm not…That isn't what I – I thought you…"

She trips, stumbles to find the right way to express herself and explain the situation. She wants to tell him, wants to explain how she got caught up in this and then torn apart by everyone's expectations for her. She had thought – she had hoped – and then he called her such vile things and it was easier. It was safer. It was –

"I thought you were different. I thought I saw the real you. But you're just a manipulative bitch, aren't you?"

Her jaw drops at his words, slams shut with his next. He turns away, turns back to offer his final words before walking away and climbing into his limo. She watches the limo drive away with his words still ringing in her ears.

_I'll have my lawyer contact your mother's. I won't allow you or your mother or my father to take this baby away from me._


	9. Part Nine

**Author's Note:** I received a handful of reviews on the last chapter asking similar questions about the motivations of Chuck and Blair's actions in the last chapter. I replied to them in general on my tumblr, which you can find the link for on my profile. I tried very hard not to give anything away. Mainly I just pointed out small moments people might have missed. I am happy to answer questions and dialogue about my story so feel free to ask away either on tumblr or here. And, as always, thank you all for your lovely reviews and support.

* * *

Chuck hires a private jet service to take him back to New York. By now his father has surely gotten wind of his trip to Lyon, and he is not at all surprised when the transportation director tells me the Bass Jet is indisposed.

Regardless, he is not about to fly commercial ever again. He spent the long transatlantic flight next to a man who basically begged him for a job after learning he was seated next to the Charles Bass not realizing that Chuck has absolutely no control nor interest in the hiring process at Bass Industries. He is not about to have a repeat performance of that for the long flight back and, besides, he needs the time to plan his attack.

His first call is not to a lawyer associated with Bass Industries but rather to a former classmate of his from St. Jude's who had just come out of a long, drawn out custody battle over his kid with his ex-wife. Adam von Schmidt sounds surprised at his call, surprised still when Chuck asks for the name of his divorce lawyer. He hadn't heard that the womanizing Chuck Bass had settled down, had only heard that the man was back in town a few weeks ago. But he passes along the name without question, and Chuck hangs up without thanking him.

His call to one Cyrus Rose sounds promising. Mister Rose seems confident that given the fact that the mother wants to give the child up for adoption, Chuck should have very little problem gaining sole custody of his baby. The call appears to be going well until, that is, Mister Rose asks for the name of the mother-to-be.

"Did you say Blair Waldorf?"

Chuck repeats the name, confirms the fact that Miss Waldorf is in fact carrying his child, but he is met only with a click and the dial tone of the phone. Assuming that the plane interfered somehow, he calls back and is greeted by Mister Rose's secretary who informs him that Mister Rose is not taking new clients at the moment and, no, he does not have a referral for him.

He spends the rest of the flight tracking down a new lawyer. Some appear eager to take the call until they learn that he is Charles Bass not Bart Bass. Others point blank tell him that they do not want to anger his father despite how much money he is willing to pay. He is somewhere over Greenland when he finally finds a Rachel McCoy of Brooklyn who is willing to go toe to toe with Big Bad Bart and Eleanor Waldorf. They make a plan to meet tomorrow morning bright and early.

Rachel is harsh; a bull in a china shop as she lays out exactly what he needs to do to solidify his case. First on the list is moving out of his suite at his father's hotel and into a suitable home for a child. He needs to diversify his assists; a strip joint doesn't exactly scream daddy and me time. He needs to clean up his act – no more drugs, no more hookers, and no more exploits splashed across Page Six.

For the next three and a half weeks, he works hard at cleaning up his life. His personal private investigator – one he hires independent of Bass Industries with a referral from Rachel – digs up a vast amount of information on Blair now that Chuck knows her location and her alias. He receives pictures of her out in Lyon with Roman and Harold or walking alone through the vineyard, and he glances at them before shoving them in the top drawer of his dresser. He doesn't need photographs of her to remind him of what she looks like, and she is still doing a masterful job at hiding all signs of her pregnancy under dresses and jackets.

On Tuesday, though, he nearly falls apart when he receives a copy of her sonogram in the mail. It's not from the PI, but there is no return address or handwritten note accompanying the photograph to tell him who sent it to him. He wasn't even sure it was hers until he read the patient's name at the top of the sonogram.

He finds a doctor willing to be discrete, willing to meet with him to go over the sonogram without asking too many questions. It's a bit too early to determine the sex and the doctor is not willing to hazard a guess, but he does point out the baby's hands and face and legs so that Chuck knows exactly what he is looking at.

He has lunch with Nathaniel once, explains how Blair freaked out at the idea of moving in together. Nate tries to cheer him up by offering his own story of how he bought an apartment in Murray Hill for him and Blair as a high school graduation present that she adamantly refused to share. Chuck just swallows the information, doesn't know how to explain that this is not the same. Because if Blair was pregnant with Nate's baby, you can bet she would have moved to Murray Hill in a heartbeat even though she hates the neighborhood.

His father calls while he is on his way with Rachel to a conference room at a neutral location in the city, chews him out for going to Lyon and then stealthily putting this meeting on his calendar. They argue over the phone until one of them – it is hard to tell which – ends the call in frustration.

He waits with Rachel in the conference room for nearly two hours; he waits because he will always wait for his father even when he tries to claim otherwise. And then, just as he is apologizing for wasting Rachel's time even though he is only one of them not getting paid to sit there, his father's personal secretary enters the room with clipped heels and a clipped expression.

Kit tries to muster up all the apology in her voice she possibly can as she explains that there has been in accident, that his father is at New York General and he needs to get there immediately. The limo speeds across town, an action that makes Kit nervous given the nature of the accident.

He enters the hospital, is bombarded by doctors who want him to make a decision immediately about the course of action they need to take. But the site of his father – big, bad Bart – lying on the table pale and bloody as grown men push on his chest and try to jump start his heart is too much. And so Chuck does what Chuck does best.

He flees.

It falls on Arthur to drive his employer to Victrola so he can get smashed; it falls on Arthur to tell his employer that his father is dead. Of course, he does not need to say the words because Chuck can just tell by the way the old man comes to him with his chauffer cap in hand. He falls deeper down into the hole, drinks himself into oblivion until he doesn't know which way is up and which way is down.

It falls on Lily van der Woodsen – did you know she and Bart were dating? – to claim the body and make the appropriate arrangements. Information is delivered to Chuck about the funeral and the wake via a text message from Serena and a voice mail from Lily. The only thought running through his head when he receives the messages is how the fuck they got his numbers.

No one bothers to visit him in person. His only human contact is the concierge who delivers flowers and condolence cards with signatures forged by secretaries from people he doesn't even know.

* * *

He is completely resigned not to attend the funeral, resigned to lying here on the bed in his suite and drinking every single emotion away. That is, until he opens eyes clouded by alcohol and drugs and thinks his hazy brain is playing tricks on him because there is absolutely no way that Blair Waldorf is standing in the middle of his suite at the Palace.

She doesn't say anything to him. Silently opens the curtains so the sunlight streams in and hurts his eyes. Silently picks out something appropriate for him to wear. She is surprisingly strong for someone all of a hundred pounds, or maybe he is just surprisingly weak for someone who has consumed all of a hundred pounds of scotch. Either way, she makes him stand up off the bed, helps him change into the black attire she has laid out for him, and fixes the shoes he has on the wrong feet. She sprays him with air freshener (there is no time for a bath and he doesn't wear cologne), and then she gets Arthur to help her escort him to the limo.

They pick up Nate along the way, and both his best friend and his – well, whatever Blair is – try to keep him from drinking the assorted selection of booze in the back of the limo on the way to the cemetery. Nate mumbles something about dropping him off on the steps or leaving him at the Palace, but Blair is quick to shoot him down and remind him that Chuck needs to be at his father's funeral. Nate tries to give him a pep talk, reminds him of all those times in eighth grade he went home drunk from the Archibalds and had to get through dinner without his father finding out.

"I didn't want my father to think less of me. What does that matter now?"

Blair tries to fix his hair, but he jerks away from her and she ends up grabbing his face. There's a threat of sticking her finger down his throat, a threat that loses Nate as the formerly engaged couple drag him towards the chapel. Lily tries to comfort him, tries to express some kind of condolence over their mutual loss as she tells him that he should be with his family today.

But he has no idea what she is talking about because Lily isn't his mother and her children are not his siblings. Bart never mentioned to his son that he was even dating Lily van der Woodsen, and the only family Chuck has is about to be buried six feet under.

"My family? I don't have a family."

He shakes Blair off of him, leaves her standing amongst her friends and her family as her hands slide around the belly she is trying to conceal with an oversized black dress. Maybe her actions are supposed to be a reminder to him, but he is too loaded to see them as he walks into the chapel alone.

Blair and Nate try to sit on either side of him in the pew in the front row. At one point, she tries to hold his hand but is firmly rejected when he snatches his hand away from her and hides it in the pocket of his suit coat. Thankfully, the excruciating service is short; no one really has anything nice to say about such a vindictive man.

Family and friends are invited back to Bart Bass' penthouse for the wake and, of course, the invitation is extended to him. Nate and Blair both seem surprised when he instructs Arthur to take him there, and the long ride there and up the elevator is spent with them both trying to convince him to go home or at least make this visit short.

"This is exactly where I want to be. I have business to attend to."

"Okay, that's fine," Blair concedes. "But let's just find you to a quiet corner and get some food in your stomach."

"No," he replies dismissively, grabbing the first alcoholic drink he can find and disappearing up the stairs towards his father's office. "I'm not in the mood for food."

When Chuck is halfway up the stairs and completely out of earshot, Nate turns to his former fiancée and tries to compliment her on the way she has handled today.

"You're really sweet with him."

"Me? Sweet? No."

"No, you are. I mean, worrying about him, flying all the way here from France, offering him food. It's downright maternal."

"It's the hormones," she informs him sharply. Her gaze darts around the room, taking into account all of the people here today. "And I would ask you not to mention the m-word in public. Come on. I see kugel."

Unable to locate any of the documentation on his father's plan with Eleanor or a copy of his father's will, he gives up on his search and returns downstairs. He barks for the woman at the coat closet to give him his coat, tells Blair, Nate, and Serena that he has to go and cannot talk.

"Go where? Everyone you know is standing in this room."

"I don't want to be here," he replies icily before walking away.

He is already in the elevator when he hears Nate try to stop Blair from following him, catches a brief glimpse of her as the door closes, and thinks he is home free when he steps outside until he hears her shout out his name.

"Chuck! Stop!"

He stops in front of the door to his limousine, turns around to face her when he hears her running feet slow behind him.

"Don't go. Or, if you have to leave, let me come with you."

"I appreciate your concern," he replies as he reaches for the door handle and opens the door to his escape. He needs to leave, has to get out of here and get away from all those people pretending to give a fuck about him and his father.

"No, you don't," she tells him. He stops, turns to face her again. "You don't appreciate anything today, but I don't care. Whatever you're going through, I wanna be there for you."

"We talked about this," he seethes, memories of her rejection in Lyon running through his mind. "You are not my girlfriend."

"But I am me. And you are you. We're Chuck and Blair," she says as she reaches for his hand and holds it with her own. "Blair and Chuck. The worst thing you've ever done, the darkest thought you've ever had, I will stand by you through anything."

"And why would you do that?"

"Because –"she pauses, breaks the silence with three softly spoken words and eyes piercing into his. "I love you."

The words are like cold water splashed onto his face. Weeks ago, he would have gathered her in his arms and never let her go. But she left him alone to go through the worst thing that has ever happened to him and suffer through the darkest thoughts he has ever had. He offered to stand by her, begged her to let him do so, but she rejected him over and over again.

"Well, that's too bad."

He climbs into the limo, slams the door on her, and tells Arthur to drive away. The limo makes a large loop around the city and then another; travels into the seedy areas so he can buy more alcohol, stops in Central Park so he can puke in the grass. And then he ends up not at his suite at the Palace or at Victrola or anywhere anyone would expect him to go.


	10. Part Ten

His vision is so clouded and his head spinning so badly that he does not even registered the limo has stopped until the door closest to him is wrenched open. Two hands reach into the limo, and he slides away from their straining grasp under he is slumped against the other door.

"Come on, Mister Bass," the owner of those hands coaxes as he climbs into the limo and reaches for Chuck.

He wrenches the young man out of the limo just as he did when Chuck was six-years-old and refusing to attend school. His employer protests, slurs his words and stumbles over his own feet as he is hauled towards the service entrance in the back of the building.

"No," he slurs when he spies the woman waiting for him at the back door.

He turns away and stumbles again as he tries to leave, but the grip around his arms tighten and he is compelled forward. The alcohol has robbed him of much of his motor skills, and his flimsy arm is looped over the stout woman's shoulder until his weight is being supported by the two people normally found in uniform. He hasn't lost enough of his motor skills to be in the dark about the fact that these two have schemed together. If this wasn't a scheme, they would currently be escorting him up the elevator in the lobby under _her_ watchful gaze instead of dragging him towards the service elevator.

"Arthur," he says as his head rolls onto the shoulder of his source of anger, "you're fired."

The woman pressing the button marked 'PH' raises an eyebrow at the chauffeur. She had warned him about the possibility of them both losing their jobs; the possibility had been the main source of her hesitation. But Arthur brushes off her concern. Some things are more important than a job, and Arthur has been Chuck Bass' personal driver long enough to know that this is exactly where his employer needs to be.

Arthur stays behind in the elevator and rides it back down alone because he needs to move his double-parked limo before the doorman calls a tow truck. The woman chatters away in broken English as she sneaks him up the back staircase alone. She tells him that Miss Eleanor is marrying a Mister Cyrus Rose downstairs, and some part of his brain fights through the fuzziness to recognize exactly why Mister Rose hung up on him. He tries to turn back twice, is forced to move forward by the Polish woman who refuses to put up with his nonsense and sets him on the bed with strict instructions not to move.

* * *

"What do you think you're doing here?"

Her voice is sharp and demanding, but her features are softened by the turn of his head. He holds her gaze, turns away when he can't find the right words to say.

Her bulky black dress is gone, traded for a gold number that shows of her rounded stomach despite the bow. Shame and sadness fills him, and more silent tears run down his cheeks when he feels her arms wrap around his shoulder and neck. He presses his cheek to her shoulder, rocks backwards until she is cradling him close.

"He's gone," he whispers, feels her pull him tighter against herself and try to roll them both back onto the bed. He tenses and tries to hold his posture so he doesn't fall back against her and crush the baby sandwiched between them.

"I'm here," she mummers in his ear. "Let me be here for you."

He gingerly touches the arm looped around his neck at the elbow and tries to pry her off of him, but her grip tightens so that his only option is to shift his body so that he is facing her. His hands slide around her back. His fingers fumble with the zipper of her dress.

"That isn't what I meant," she tells him.

She shrugs her shoulders, tries to shake off his hands from her back. He stills, pauses, and considers what she is assuming of him.

"No," he corrects softly. "I just…I just wanna see my baby."

She stares at him, looks past the cloudiness and hooded eyelids to see the rawness of the request. She hears him, looks past the roughness and slightly slurred words to hear the ache behind the request. Silently, she acquiesces and pulls down the zipper herself.

The front of the dress falls forward, and she slips off the bed to allow it to fall to a puddle at her feet. She feels naked and exposed despite her virginal bra and panties. Twenty-two weeks. More than halfway. Unmistakably pregnant.

"You're so big," he breathes out.

"Thanks," she snaps and bends down to pick her dress back up so as to cover up her form.

"No."

He lunges for her hands, stills her movements.

"That's not what I meant. It's just…" he trails off, eyes closing and opening again before he speaks. "When I saw you earlier, the dress – I had no idea. I couldn't tell. But now…"

His hand ghosts across her stomach, across the taunt skin as though he is afraid to touch it. She watches him with curious eyes, sees her emotions reflected in his eyes that are filled with tears and sadness. He brings up his other hand to touch her and then he is cupping her belly, stroking it softly with his thumbs.

"She's healthy?"

"He's perfect," she replies.

The correction introduces a torrent of emotions, and he can barely breathe as he questions the pronoun. He seems terrified at the amendment, drops his hands and shifts away when she confirms that the baby is in fact a boy.

"Did you want a girl that badly?"

"No," he says, but the single word comes out more like a whimper. "It's just that I – I'm going to fuck him up just like my dad –"

His voice breaks at the mention of his father, and he stands to his feet. He starts to tell her that he should go, says something about her and the baby deserving better. But she grabs onto his arm, sinks her nails in like she is holding on for dear life.

"You won't," she promises. "You already – he moves at the sound of your voice. I'm always having to poke him to make him move around, but one word from you and…"

"You can feel him?"

She finds herself nodding her head rather than verbally telling him yes as he sinks back down to bed so that he is sitting in front of her. His hands are back on her belly like he has some kind of magnetic pull to the area, a pull that he cannot resist.

"He knows my voice?"

"I guess so," she replies. "He was moving like crazy every time you spoke earlier and now –"

She trails off, watches him move his hands around and frustration set into his features.

"I can't feel anything."

The anguish in his voice kills her, and she runs her hands through his messed hair in an attempt to comfort him. She explains that he won't, at least not for another few weeks, and she hopes against hope that the timeline is enough to get him to stay. He drops his head, refuses to look her in the eyes. She does the only thing that feels natural to her – pushes her stomach against him so that his forehead is touching her and his lips are inches from her belly button.

Tears fall. She can feel the wetness against her stomach. The floorboards outside her room creak, and she turns her head to see Dorota lurking in the doorway. She dismisses Dorota with a cutting glare, ignores the woman as Dorota shuts the door to her bedroom. All the sounds of the small party downstairs are gone; leaving them wrapped in the sound of Chuck's muffled cries.

* * *

Eventually, she convinces him to sleep. They lay on top of the covers together with only the thin afghan off the foot of her bed for coverage although she is semi-naked and he is fully clothed. She wraps him tight around her, places one knee between his legs and other on top of his knee so that she will know if he tries to leave in the middle of the night. And then, for good measure, she places his hand right on top of her belly even though allowing him to see the size and the shape is hard for her handle.

She barely sleeps that night, watches him like a hawk until her eyelids are too heavy and she loses her self-inflicted battle. And when she awakens, he is gone – no note, no good-bye. She feels like she is going to cry, feels like she is going to vomit even though she has been done with morning sickness for weeks.

She pulls on her white robe, grimaces when she realizes that it will not cover her belly even when she pulls it as tightly across her body as possible. She debates about taking a shower, likes the idea of being able to mask her tears with the stinging hot water. But a deep growl from her stomach rejects the idea, and she resigns herself to the idea that she will have to go downstairs and eat breakfast first.

Her bare feet feel cold against the marble; her body feels cold against the world. She calls out for Dorota, demands a breakfast tray as she sashays into the dining room. And then hot warmth fills through her as her heart stills. Her hand slides around her body to cup her belly, always ready to protect and cuddle close.

"Miss Blair," Dorota greets as she pulls out a chair and gestures for Blair to sit down.

Her employer is not easily fooled by Dorota's innocence act, and a quipped eyebrow and an open mouth spur Dorota towards an explanation. Her statement that Mister Chuck came downstairs looking for breakfast after Miss Eleanor and Mister Cyrus left for their honeymoon is not entirely believable. Chuck at least as the decency to look away sheepishly at the lie. Dorota leaves them together to go and fetch Miss Blair's breakfast, makes a passing comment about important it is that they both attend the internment with full stomachs.

"I wasn't going to stay," he confesses when Dorota finally leaves them alone.

"I know," she replies softly.

Her gaze is fixated on the half-eaten omelet in front of him. Ham and cheese and carbs and fat. All things that she would never let herself enjoy. Yogurt and fresh fruit are enough, she tells herself. Except the baby disagrees and the loud rumble from her stomach leaves her secret exposed.

"Here," he says, sliding the plate towards her.

"Oh, no," she quickly rejects. "Dorota is bringing me my –"

"Yogurt and grapes? The baby needs more than that."

"I'll feed the baby whatever I want," she snaps angrily.

The comment hangs between them as Dorota bustles into the dining room with Blair's breakfast tray. The yogurt, grapes, and strawberries would have been enough only moments ago but now suddenly look entirely unappetizing, and she ends up picking at food on the plate. With a gentle nudge, the omelet is pushed further into her eyesight and, even though she does not want to give him the satisfaction of being right, she finds herself inhaling the cheesy mess.

"Better?"

She rolls her eyes at his teasing, glares at his insubordination. And then her gaze softens at the sight of him. His hair is mess. His clothes – the same ones he wore yesterday – are haphazardly arranged, and he still reeks of alcohol. Gone is the perfectly coffered Chuck Bass, replaced by something she barely recognizes.

"The internment?"

Her question clearly startles him, and he eyes her suspiciously. She wants to ask him if she can go with him, but the memory of his rejection yesterday is still fresh in her mind. He stands, gives her a once over, and starts to walk away. Then, hovering just inside the doorway between the dining room and the living room, he pauses and calls out without turning around to face her.

"Go get dressed."

* * *

It is a cold and dreary morning as she stands side by side with him at the graveyard. She feels gross since she's wearing the same dress as yesterday, but she has nothing else with her that is black and will cover her new shape. At least, she tells herself, she can take small comfort in the fact that he has also not changed.

The priest mumbles something about ashes to ashes, dust to dust as the gilded coffin is lowered into the grown. She doesn't bother trying to hold his hand, which are currently stuffed into the pockets of his coat. She doesn't bother trying to offer words of comfort. Instead, she takes in all that she can about the moment with eyes fixated on the name on the imposing, shared headstone above Bart Bass' grave.

_Evelyn Bass. _

The name is unfamiliar to her. She reads the words under the name, feels her chest tighten at phrase "beloved wife". She had no idea Bart Bass was once married, assumed that Chuck sprang from thin air or, more likely, from a woman like her. Too stupid to know better, too stupid to do anything about it. Like father, like son.

But the dates below Evelyn's name give her pause. A quick calculation places the year of death in the same time frame as Chuck's birth. (She's never asked when his birthday is; he has never offered it.) The coffin is lowered, the dirt is shoveled in, and still she cannot tear her eyes away from the headstone. She feels his hand on her elbow, feels herself being tugged towards the car, and still she cannot tear her eyes away.

"Evelyn?"

Her question is a whisper meet with darkened eyes. He shrugs off her question as he helps her into the car, as he instructs Arthur to take them to Victrola. The name hangs between them even after he escorts her to the couch in the middle of the nearly empty establishment. He orders a scotch, settles into the couch to watch the dancers but finds himself watching her.

She likes to watch; he can tell just by the way she leans forward in her seat and watches with wide eyes. Burlesque, stripping, the forbidden enthralls her. His drowns his drink, orders a refill as his free hand comes to play with the curls hanging in front her face. He cannot bear to see her hide.

She turns her head at his action, looks at him cautiously and sadly. He tries to give her a smile, drops his hand to slide against her back in his failure. She turns her attention back to the stage as the music changes, and she turns her head back to look at him over her shoulder as the song she danced to fills the room.

"Do you remember that night when I danced for you? When you saw the real me? The Blair without all the hang-ups?"

He has no idea where she is going with this, no idea how to respond. She turns her gaze away from him and whispers so softly that he has to strain to hear what she said.

"I miss her."

She becomes mesmerized by the actions of the women on stage just as he becomes mesmerized by her. He strokes the back of her arm gently and whispers so softly that she has to strain to hear him.

"Evelyn was my mother. She died giving birth to me."


	11. Part Eleven

The lights are off in the office in the back of Victrola, but the electricity between them in enough to light half of the city. She is perched on the edge of his unused desk and sitting on her dress so that her legs and hips are effectively encased in the dark fabric. He touches her through the fabric, caress her until she moans and gasps into his shoulder.

He grows tired of tugging on the entrapped fabric and, in responses, eases her off the desk, props her against, and draws up her skirt as he sinks to his knees before her. She blinks down at him with eyes heavy with desire and clouded with lust, arches a brow when he catches her gaze.

She has been with two men in her entire life, and he is only one that ever seems to relish at the thought of being on his knees before her. He lifts up the hem of her dress, exposes the beginning of her stockings and her garter belt. Her skin appears uncomfortable against the later; the tight fabric pressing against her belly. He tugs at the fabric of her garter belt, yanks and pulls until the fabric tears and exposes a red line of irritation across her skin.

He growls at the sight, plants kisses across the line and thus across her belly. He bunches the fabric of her dress up higher, tucks the fabric behind her so it is trapped by her hips against the desk's edge and out of the way.

"You owe me a new garter belt," she gasps.

He pulls down her panties and leaves them puddled at her feet on the floor. She shudders when he drags his fingers up the length of her legs without concern that he might snag her stockings. He runs his hands over the swells and hallows he first claimed so long ago, over the swells and hallows that have developed as a result of that night.

Her eyes close; a line of concentration furrows her brow. He tries to take his time, but she grows restless and demanding. Her hand tightens in his hair and she settles against the desk, parts her thighs and issues an invitation he cannot refuse.

He strokes at her thighs with the backs of his fingers then turns his hand and slides his fingers into the heaven between to caress. He wasn't lying when he said that he would never have enough of this, never get his fill. He slides one finger in, strokes out slowly and grins when her hips shift forward to follow him, to seek him out.

Despite the weeks of separation, he knows exactly how to play her. Knows just when to wait, when to take, when to demand. Her hand in his hair and the back of her legs against the desk help keep her upright as the tension grows and the fire burns. Every sensation is expertly orchestrated by his caresses, by his kisses. Then he grasps her thighs and parts her legs further. She expects him to stand, to fill her.

Instead, she feels the roughness of his three-day-old stubble against her inner thigh, simultaneously feels his hair brush against the underside of her extended belly. Then she feels his tongue, rolls her eyes in the back of her head and throws her head backwards. With his mouth, his teeth, his fingers, and his tongue he winds her up tighter and tighter only to ease off, to let the tension slacken.

Her knees are starting to buckle just as he moves to his feet and slides inside her. It's enough to make her shatter, to make her chant finally in her head over and over again. He spins out her orgasm with the rise and thrust of his hips, takes her back to that spot so that she shatters again. This time it is with him, and they both slump backwards onto the desk together. A hand – one that drips of her – slams against the top of the desk to hold them in place, to keep him from crushing her.

This wasn't supposed to happen. They both know it, and they both will blame the other for starting it. But neither of them wants to deny themselves the pleasure that comes from this. They say nothing to one another. They enjoy the feeling of heaving chests as they struggle to breath, enjoy the feeling of him still buried inside her.

"Don't leave," he whispers against her ear. "Everyone leaves."

She shivers at his words, plants a soft kiss along his jaw line before whispering her own edict.

"Don't let me."

* * *

They lock themselves away in his suite; ignore the sounds of their cell phones ringing until the batteries die and the outside world is silenced. For now. Forever. They let their issues pile up around them, refuse to discuss what exists between them in favor of concentrating on the feeling of skin against skin and the sound of hearts beating in tandem together. The one time she tries to ask him what all this means, he goes down on her with such gusto that she can barely breathe let alone think afterwards.

He keeps her fed with all the omelets she can eat via room service from the Palace's kitchen. She keeps him sober, keeps him away from the drugs and the bottom of the bottle. He begins to lose track of all time. She begins to develop an actual fever.

And then their mutual best friends arrive, knock so hard that they nearly break down the door and leave Chuck with no other choice than to answer. Nate at least has the decency to wait outside, but Serena rushes in and captures her best friend in a hug.

"Oh my god, Blair. We've all be so worried about you. No one could find you. Your mom has been calling non-stop from her honeymoon. Your dad has been calling from Paris. I think Dorota actually had a heart attack."

"I'm sorry," Blair apologies. "But I'm fine. You didn't need to worry."

"Not worry?" Serena questions indignantly. "I'm the one who disappears. You would never do something like this, B."

"I…" Blair trails off.

Her confidence, her poise has been shattered with the reminder that she is acting entirely out of character, that this isn't her. And then the guilt washes over her when Nate of all people reminds her that she is pregnant, that she needs to take care of her baby.

"Shut up," Chuck snaps. "She and the baby are fine."

"And I suppose you've been taking care of her? Here? In this din of inequity?" Serena asks. "How? By plying her with scotch so she's willing?"

"Unlike you, I don't need to get my partner drunk in order to take them on top of a bar."

The crassness of his statement causes Blair to fume, but she isn't the only one who feels uncomfortable at Chuck's words. Neither blonde had realized that Chuck had seen them that night, and there is no denying with Chuck's calculating grin that he was not merely hazarding a guess.

"What are you two doing here?"

"Chuck," Nate begins, addressing his friend's question. "Your dad's lawyer called. You need to go to the reading of the will so everything can be settled."

"Why? They can just give me my money, and I'll be on my way."

"I don't know, Chuck. He just said it was important," Nate replies. "I'll go with you."

"Fine," Chuck snaps. "But Blair comes too."

If she is stunned by his demand, she says nothing. Just locates her crumpled black dress – the same one she has worn to both Bart's funeral and his internment – and heads off to the bathroom to change. Serena follows her and Chuck disappears into his closet so that Nate is left standing in Chuck and Blair's den of inequity alone.

* * *

They arrive outside the Monarch Room as a group and are stopped as a group by a thirty-six-year-old man climbing out of his own limo.

"Uncle Jack," Chuck greets dispassionately.

The two men do not shake hands nor do they hug – more like acquaintances than family. It falls on Jack to make his own introductions. He leers at the blonde and tries to saddle up to the brunette until Chuck steps in front of her and blocks his view.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?"

"No," Chuck snaps. "Let's get this over with."

His uncle then places his hands around Chuck's biceps, digs his nails in too tightly to be reassuring or a comfort.

"Courage, nephew. I'm going to be running Bass Industries, and you're about to inherit a billion dollars."

"I know my father. There will be so many strings attached that I'll look like a marionette. He'd never miss his last chance to put me in my place."

Chuck walks off, leaving his uncle and the group he brought with him to trail after him. Nate and Serena are excluded at the door, told to wait in the lobby until the reading of the will is over. And Blair is surprised to see that the lawyer not only knows her by name but thanks her for coming as she enters the room.

There are seven or eight people milling about the conference room table, people that Blair does not really recognize but both Chuck and Jack seem to know. Lily greets Blair with a perfunctory kiss after being blown off by Chuck, seems untaken by Jack's attempts to get to know her. The lawyer thanks them all for coming, instructs them all to take a seat around the table so the reading of the will can begin.

The division of Bart Bass' assets barely holds her interest. She cares not who gets the vacation home in Monaco – Chuck, of course – or who gets the penthouse apartment in New York and its expansive art collection, all of which goes to Lily van der Woodsen despite the fact that the two were not married or even in a recognized relationship.

The question on everyone's mind appears to be control of Bass Industries, and both Jack and the representative from the Board of Directions seem to be particularly eager to reach that part. They both keep interrupting the lawyer to ask about the company, but he keeps ignoring them and droning on and on about prized horses and an island off the coast of Dubai. Finally, just when she feels the last bit of her attention waning away, the lawyer calls out her name.

"Miss Waldorf, there was an addendum to Mister Bass' will added earlier this year. He has included the contract with your mother that was drawn up, which stipulates that you receive a hundred thousand dollars to help with your care during your pregnancy."

There is a mummer of voices around the table as Blair's secret is spilled. Blair adverts her gaze to her hands, cannot stomach the idea of looking across the table as seeing Serena's mother judging her.

"Given Mister Bass' express wish that all accounts be settled immediately, the sum will be transferred to an account to be jointly controlled by your mother and your father until the money runs out or you give birth, which either comes first."

She digs her nails into her palms as the lawyer carries on with reading the will. Most of the other physical properties and monetary assets are to be tied up in a trust and left to Chuck, which he will receive access to on his twenty-fifth birthday.

"And as for Bass Industries?" Jack interjects.

"Yes, I was just getting to that," the lawyer replies as he picks up yet another folder. "Thirty-nine percent of the company will remain in the board's hands."

The representative from the board of directors seems relieved at the news, but Jack's anxiety only increases tenfold.

"Okay, but that still leaves sixty-one percent. That's more than controlling interest."

"Charles," the lawyer says, ignoring Chuck. "Mister Bass asked me to give you this letter."

The lawyer extends the letter, holds it outright as Chuck debates whether or not to take it.

"If I don't read it, do I still get my inheritance?"

"Well, yes," the lawyer replies.

"Then I'll pass," Chuck says as he stands and begins to exit the room. Blair moves to her feet, watches as Jack snatches the letter out of the lawyer's hand and follows him out into the lobby. By the time she reaches them, Jack is telling Chuck that the letter represents his dad's final words while Nate and Serena flank around him.

"You have to read it," Nate says. "Aren't you curious to know what it says?"

"I think I can guess," Chuck saucily replies. "You're a disappointment of a son. I'd die of embarrassment if I wasn't already. Why do you wear so much purple?"

"Then you'll have the satisfaction of being right," Jack replies.

Chuck still will not take the bait, and Jack decides to open the letter for himself before Blair so unceremoniously snatches it out his hands and says that she will read it herself. She has no right – not really – but Chuck doesn't protest when she begins to read the words.

"Dear Son, I know I've always been hard on you."

"True," Chuck interrupts.

"But my goal was always to prepare you for this day, to help you go from being a boy to a man."

"The Italian au pair took care of that," he interjects with an eye roll.

"Chuck, please," Blair begs before going back to reading the will. "Sadly, there is nothing like the passing of a father to aid in the right of passage for his son. Ultimately, I do feel that I did my job and you are prepared for this next chapter of your life. Therefore, I am bequeathing you the majority share – fifty-one percent – of Bass Industries."

"Surely, that's a mistake."

"No, it's not," Nate informs him as he reads the letter over Blair's shoulder.

"He believed in you," Blair informs him as she passes the letter onto Nate.

"That son of a bitch," Jack interjects. "And let me guess, I was left with a measly ten percent?"

"No," Nate answers before reading directly from the letter.

"I knew you would never follow my plans for you, that you would undergo a different kind of passage from boy to man even as I tried to stop you. Therefore, I have left the remaining ten percent stake in the company to the child carried by Blair Waldorf, with the stipulation that the shares be managed jointly by my layer and the lawyer of Miss Waldorf's choosing until the child is twenty-one."

"What?" Blair and Jack decry at once.

"That's what it says," Nate replies. "There's some more here about adoption and paternity, but…"

"Let me see that," Chuck says as he snatches the letter out of Nate's hands. His eyes skim over the words, letting the implication sink in. "Why would he do this? He never wanted me to keep this baby, and he sure as hell never trusted me or believed in me when he was alive."

"Yes, he did," Blair corrects. She steps towards him, makes it so that the only face he can see is hers. Her hand raises to his cheek, strokes his cheekbone gentle as the other hand guides his hands to her belly. "He knew you would fight for what you wanted even if it meant standing up to him. He believed in you. I believe in you."

"I don't even know where to start."

"We'll help you, man," Nate says as he clasps his hand on his best friend's shoulder. "Your company's former CEO is dead not a fugitive on the run. You're already on better footing than me."


	12. Part Twelve

The 'meet the new CEO of Bass Industries' brunch – held in the top floor conference room at Bass Industries two days after Bart's will was read – has been going for about an hour now, and Nate has taken mostly to hanging about in the corner and watching Chuck and Blair work the room.

The members of the Board of the Directions and the higher ups within the company seem suspicious of their new CEO as he makes the rounds about the room. They know his reputation; know that the latest investment by the company into a strip joint was made at the behest of Bart to lull his son into complacency. But they seem to warm up to him as he introduces himself even if he does seem slightly uncomfortable, and they are utterly charmed by the brunette woman who flits from group to group. Eventually, there is a lull in the conversation and Chuck excuses himself to greet his best friend.

"She's good at this," Nate informs his best friend before taking a sip of his champagne as he comes to stand by him.

"At what?"

"At this," Nate says as he gestures about the room. "Being the wife. It's why my dad loved her so much. He always said that Blair Waldorf was breed for this. I mean, look at her."

And he does. He looks directly at her and sees her – her perfect clothes, her perfect smile, and the way she nods and acts as though she is interested in what those in the group around her have to say. He sees everything she wants the world to see and then he sees what's gone.

The spark, the passion, the carefree Blair without all the hang-ups is gone. Replaced by a young woman who sees her future in terms of what her husband has to offer her and not in terms of what Blair Waldorf can do.

He excuses himself from Nate as his stomach rolls, accepts the compliments of how well the party is going without comment as he stalks towards her. His hand wraps around her elbow as he excuses them before pulling her out into the empty office next door.

"What's wrong?"

She seems surprised at his actions, becomes increasingly concerned at the way his features have harden against her.

"You should go," he tells her. She shakes her head no, tries to ask him why. "I'll have Arthur drive you to the airport."

"The airport?"

"You should go back to France."

"I don't understand. What happened? I – I thought you wanted me here. I thought I was doing something nice, something supportive."

"I don't need your help. Stop trying to play the wife."

She recoils at his words, lurches back from him at his stinging rejection. He leaves her alone in the room, but she does not bother calling after him. All she wanted to do was be there for him but the words out of his mouth make her sound ugly and dirty. Like everything she has done is something she should be ashamed of.

True, they still have not discussed their mutual declarations and rejections of three words, eight letters, but she thought things had been looking up. She had come back from France for him, and he held onto her as he mourned the loss his father.

She flees the building, climbs into the first taxi she can flag down, and speeds off towards the Waldorf's penthouse. Her appearance in the kitchen of her mother's apartment surprises the maid who hasn't seen her in days, and Dorota chastises Miss Blair for disappearing while simultaneously hugging Miss Blair for returning.

But Blair will have none of it, demands that Dorota leave her alone as she pulls the mostly uneaten cake from the fridge. Dorota pauses, starts to say something but is thoroughly dismissed by Miss Blair and is forced to leave her employer alone in the kitchen. The cake – the rich, decadent cake – is shoveled in by the forkful until nothing is left. She leaves the platter covered in crumbs and the fork covered in frosting on the counter and heads towards her bedroom.

Her stomach howls in protest, tells her brain that she is full as her brain berates her for being so disgusting. Maybe if she was skinnier, maybe if she wasn't so her and more like Serena someone would want her. Her stomach rolls, the bile rises, and she ends up throwing everything back up at the altar of the porcelain goddess before she can even turn on the faucet and mask the sounds of her shame.

She crawls away from the toilet, presses her back against the wall, and runs her hand over her baby in a silent apology. She counts to ten, tries to repeat the mantra that Doctor Sherman helped her develop when she was fourteen. Yet nothing works, nothing feels as good as having control.

Eventually there is a soft knock at the door, the sound of her best friend biding her to open up. The door is unlocked, and nothing stops Serena from walking in. She takes no steps to cover up what she has done; no steps to mask the reality from her best friend and sister as Serena sinks down to her knees and sits beside her.

"What happened, B?" Serena questions, pushing the mass of curls away from Blair's face so that she can see her better.

"I didn't mean for it to happen," she replies as tears well up in her eyes. "It just did."

"Did something happen at the brunch?"

The question is answered with a scoff, with a shake of Blair's head, and with the release of a few tears. Serena's soft hands wipe away the hot tears and force Blair to look her in the eye.

"I'll never learn, will I? He doesn't love me. He doesn't want me. He only wants this baby. To take from me and give nothing in return."

She heads back to France in the morning. Serena comes with her, decides to take a leave of absence despite Blair's protests. Apparently, Brown really is drum circles and Rastafarians and Serena could use some of the culture that France provides. She seems entirely undeterred as Blair points out that it's only Lyon not Paris, and spends the rest of the flight trying to get her friend to smile.

Her father and Roman are thrilled to see her. They take her and Serena out for dinner in Lyon and promise the two girls can go to Paris whenever they want. Serena accompanies her on her walks around the vineyard, watches "Breakfast at Tiffany's" and "Roman Holiday" with her nearly every night in an attempt to cheer her up. She entertains herself with the young, French vineyard worker next door when Blair asks to be alone. She says nothing about how often Blair watches the sonogram video, and she never mentions Chuck.

Except once.

Once she when finds Blair sobbing over an article about Bass Industries in the _New York Times_. Of course, the article made no mention of Chuck as CEO as it talked about how much of a killing the private company would make on the stock market if it ever went public.

She had offered to call Nate and ask him for information on Chuck, but her suggestion nearly got her head bitten off and she never mentions it again. Except she does ask Nate and feels smug satisfaction when he informs her that Chuck is miserable, has taken to drinking and womanizing again.

* * *

His poisons are lined up in meticulous rows, ready to be selected and help throw him off the cliff. A rolled joint next to his lighter; a large bottle of scotch – a lower quality band than normal because after enough it doesn't really matter – just waiting to be drowned. Three lines of white powder ready to be snorted up his nose should the other two not be enough. And his best friend on the couch next to him willing to get lost with him.

Or, so he thought.

"Well, this is thrilling," Nate informs him as he leans back against the couch. "When you texted me to come over, I didn't think it'd be to watch you stare down a line of coke."

He doesn't reply because there isn't much to say. He did text Nate, and he is staring down his drug of choice. Three sheets to the wind and already his cognitive abilities are impaired. Must be a new record, he muses to himself.

"I don't understand you, man," Nate says.

"What's there to understand?"

"Oh, I don't know," Nate replies sarcastically. "You steal my fiancée and get her pregnant but claim that you love her so it's all okay. You chase her when she runs away to France. You let her in when your dad dies and then send her running for France again when she starts to act like your girlfriend."

"Wife," he harshly corrects. "Not girlfriend."

"And what's so wrong with that? Afraid that the great Chuck Bass might actually settle down? I thought you wanted that baby."

"I do want the baby," Chuck replies. He drains his drink at the implication that he doesn't.

"But you don't want Blair? What happened to 'I'm in love with her'?"

"Was. I was in love with Blair." he corrects. "And I don't want her to be my wife. Not the way your father expected her to be."

"What are you talking about?"

"Breed for this, remember? She's not a horse, Nathaniel."

Nate's brain searches for what 'this' might mean, but he comes up empty. Sometimes he wishes Chuck would stop being so cryptic and start being more forthright with his emotions because Nate is getting really tired of playing guessing games.

"I want her to be happy," Chuck replies when his friend asks him to elaborate. "I want her to be Blair not Mrs. Chuck Bass or mother of my heir."

"But she is," Nate argues. "Whether or not you two ever get married, she is always going to be the mother of your heir, as you put it..."

He doesn't take the bait in the form of a trailed of statement. Instead, he drowns the glass of scotch in his hand. His jaw cracks as he tightens it in anger.

"Listen, I know you don't like talking about your feelings, but –"

"How perceptive of you, Dr. Phil," Chuck interrupts. "Care to give me some relationship advice too, Oprah?"

"Yeah," his best friend bites back, "don't do this, Chuck. I know you love her; the whole damn world knows you love her. But once you snort that, you can kiss Blair and her baby goodbye, not to mention Bass Industries. You know your uncle is just looking for an excuse to replace you."

"I can handle Jack!"

"Can you? 'Cause it's Wednesday and you texted me to come over for a Lost Weekend."

Nate shakes his head in frustration, glances about Chuck's suite at the Palace. The place reeks of booze and weed, worse than when Bart first died and Chuck went off the grid. The last time the place smelled normal, the last time Chuck appeared to be getting better was when he holed up here with Blair.

"What happened to your lawyer's plan? The one where you were going to buy an apartment, get ready to be a dad. Even with your wealth and name, no judge is going to see you as a fit parent."

"Nathaniel," Chuck calmly says before his voice becomes more like a snarl. "Get out."

His friend hesitates for just a moment before grabbing his suit coat and exiting Chuck's suite with a slam of the door. The numbness he has been experiencing for weeks now evaporated with Nate's harsh statement, and he finds himself leaning towards the line of coke laid out in front of him.

The call, the urge is still there but another voice screams louder inside of him. With a roar, his left hand balls into a fist and slams into the glass coffee table. The glass shatters at the force and tears at his hand. Shards of glass become embedded as he retracts his hand from the mess. Blood runs down his hand, splatters onto the floor.

And yet the pain never registers because the ache in his heart is just too strong.

For just a moment the world stop spinning and he is filled with stunning clarity. The fact of the matter is that he wants her. He wants her and their baby. All the harsh words, all the rejection had been to protect her from him. She deserves better than him as a lover, as a boyfriend, as a husband. Their son deserves better than him as a father. But that does not mean that he does not want her.

He wants her for who she is – the woman she is and could be. Not to fulfill some ideal, some erroneous vision but because he knows that they are two sides of the same coin. They are one and the same; they are right for one another. He is in absolutely no danger of setting her on any pedestal, sees all of her faults and selfishness and still wants her absolutely.

He could not – _does not_ – expect her to be dependent upon him, to change in any way to be the perfect wife society thinks she should be. He has already denied her Yale, denied her so much of what it means to be nineteen and in college.

(He can only suppose what that might mean given that he never attended college longer than a few weeks himself.)

He will never ask her to change, accepts her – the real her – not some figment of his or anyone else's imagination. Not the perfect societal debutant or wife, but the woman he saw on stage, the woman he caught spying and scheming, the woman who believed in him even when he could not do so himself.

The thought, the reality of their situation is so deeply gut-wrenching. He wants her, cannot let her go. But to grasp what exists between them, he will have to accept the emotional closeness that would be – already was – a foregone conclusion, a vital part of what bound them. He can no longer shove her away to protect her, would have to let her see all the parts of him no matter how twisted or dark.

The blood splatters onto the screen of his phone as he picks it up off the shatter glass coffee table and makes a call he should have made weeks ago.


	13. Part Thirteen

There is nothing quite like springtime in Paris and although shopping for couture goes badly even with Harold's credit card at their disposal, Blair seems to enjoy having the right to eat as many Pierre Hermé macaroons as she would like. And, besides, there is nothing stopping her from buying as many new headbands, handbags, and shoes as her hurt desires. Their diversion into a baby boutique – the first Blair has ever expressed a wish to visit – takes longer than the two originally planned, and they find themselves racing across town in a hired town car to catch the last train back to Lyon.

They rush into the train station, hurry to catch the train as fast as Blair can move. It is up to Serena to carry all their bags as Blair feigns exhaustion and claims that pregnant women should not have to carry such heavy bags. Serena lets her get away with it because Blair rarely even mentions her pregnancy these days, and Serena debates how much more she should push the conversation as they settle into the first empty compartment they can find.

The two are seated across from one another with their packages taking up the rest of the compartment. Serena opens her mouth, shuts it when Blair eyes her, and then finally speaks when Blair's gaze shifts from her to those milling on the train platform.

"B, about the baby –"

"Thank you for coming to France with me," Blair interrupts. "I know Lily must be angry at you for leaving Brown, but I really need my best friend right now."

"Of course, B. I'd do anything for you. You've been so brave about this whole thing."

Everyone around her pats her head; praises her for being so brave and doing this alone. Not one person has a glimpse, has any inkling of the torment and anguish she has hidden inside. She keeps it hidden because that is what is expected of her. But every now and then, the burden becomes too great, and Blair takes comfort in the fact that there is one person to help her find her way through it.

"I've been acting like I'm okay, but I'm not," Blair confesses as her hands slide to her belly and her head shakes in disagreement. At nearly twenty-seven weeks there is no more hiding her bump behind oversized dresses, and it is obvious to anyone who even glances at her that she is pregnant. "They say it's a broken heart, but…"

She trails off, moves her gaze from the departing train station to her stomach to her best friend. Her voice drops lower, breaks in anguish.

"I hurt in my whole body," she says in a tone that sounds more like a cry. "I mean, what if I stay like this forever?"

"You won't be pregnant forever," Serena gently reminds her. It's a poor joke, a lame joke, but the effort does not go entirely unappreciated it.

"What if I never get over Chuck?"

"You will," Serena promises. "You'll see."

"But how? If I keep this baby, Chuck will always be a part of me. If I don't, I will have to live with the knowledge that my baby, my little boy is being raised by him. I lie awake at night, and he is all I think about."

"Because this baby is also half of you," Serena replies as reaches out and grasps her best friend's hand. "Because it takes more than Chuck Bass to destroy Blair Waldorf."

* * *

"I'm Chuck Bass."

The man with the mop of dark, curly hair gives him an onceover – twice – before returning back to his menial task of shelving books at the Bobst Library. He has less than thirty minutes left on the clock, and he is really hoping that Chuck Bass will not insist on bothering him for the remainder of his shift.

"Is that supposed to mean something?"

The question is merely meant to goad the man next to him. Everyone knows who Chuck Bass is, particularly if you attended St. Jude's. The man's antics are legendary, and a tally of Bass' freshman conquests is still etched into the door of the second stall of the third floor bathroom.

"You've been spending too much time here," Chuck informs him with a disdainful glance at their surroundings. "Even Europeans know what that means."

He rolls his eyes at the statement, starts pushing the half-empty cart of books to the next aisle over only to find that Chuck Bass follows him.

"I have a proposition for you, Humphrey."

He stops the cart in the middle of the aisle, fails at appearing unsurprised that Chuck Bass knows his name. He cannot imagine what this man in the bowtie and suit too pretentious for NYU could possibly have to offer him.

"Your internship? I'd be willing to let you write an article on the new direction of Bass Industries."

The offer is, admittedly, hard to resist. Bass Industries is a notoriously private company. Official interviews are rarely given, and those who dare speak off the record usually lose their jobs rather quickly. An interview with the new CEO would be a gold mine, certain to launch his writing career or at the very least move from him the back to the front of the intern pack.

"And what's in it for you?"

There is always a catch. If Dan Humphrey learned anything during his time on the Upper East Side, it is that there is always a caveat when dealing with residents of this particular section of the city. People like Chuck Bass don't just offer to jump start your career. People like Serena van der Woodsen don't just agree to go on a date with a boy from Brooklyn.

"Your little website? The gossip one?"

"Gossip Girl," Dan offers readily before internally berating himself for doing so. The title seems so contrite given that Blair Waldorf exposed him as the blogger during their last year of high school together. The site started out as his penultimate expose of the twisted, disgusting nature of the Upper East Side but it cost him everything in the end and has become nothing more than fodder for an unpublished manuscript no publisher will touch with a ten-foot-pole.

"Gossip Girl is dead," he informs Chuck before turning his attention back to his assigned task. "No one follows it anymore."

"You and I both know that's not true."

Dan cannot imagine how Chuck Bass knows that. No one sends in gossip and tips to the website, not after Blair issued a fatwa against him and his alter ego. Yet the site still draws enough hits that advertisers send him checks each month. The money is slowly dwindling as time passes, but it was enough to cover the gap leftover between his scholarship and work study last semester.

"What do you want with it anyways? I highly doubt acquisition of the site falls in line with your new business plan for Bass Industries."

Chuck snorts at the suggestion that he would even be interested in owning something so plebeian. He explains that he has something else in mind for the website, starting with a trip across town to which Humphrey needs to escort him to.

* * *

Blair becomes increasingly uncomfortable as the days pass by. She whines about itchy skin, complains about swollen feet when Serena tries to make her walk through the vineyard. She no longer wants to be alone with her thoughts, but is also in no mood to spend time with her friend and family – all of whom ask her what she is going to do.

Her mother is still under the impression that her plan will be followed despite Blair's brief deviation earlier in the year. She contacts the adoption agency, finds a nice family of expats living in London who would be more than thrilled to become the parents of a little boy. Roman – and thus her father by extension – make overtures about being willing to take the baby themselves, to raise the baby as their son and Blair's brother.

Serena tells her that she will support her best friend no matter what, suggests they get an apartment halfway between Providence and New Haven and take turns watching the baby. The sentiment is appreciated, of course, but Blair is callous enough to tell Serena that she is too flaky to raise a baby to her face. Serena gets bent out of shape over the suggestion until Blair wears her down with reminders of the goldfish that Serena forgot to feed when she was seven, the bunny that fell off the balcony of her building when she was nine, and the puppy that was forgotten in Central Park when they were twelve because Serena got distracted by a boy.

The point is taken and accepted, but not before Serena reminds Blair that Handsome was sent to live with her father and Roman after Blair stopped paying attention to him senior year in favor of spending time with Nate. The comment reduces Blair to tears, and macaroons offered as an apology only make her cry harder because Serena is clearly trying to fatten her up and make her completely undesirable.

No one cares to acknowledge Blair's real desire. No one knows about the scrapbook she crafts in her mind just like she did as a child where things work out just the way she plans them, where she gets the crown and Prince Charming at the end of the day. She tries to change the scrapbook during the day, tries to move forward and make realistic plans, but at night her dreams undo all her hard work and she is right back where she started.

She keeps everything to herself, keeps her child's kicks and movements to herself. He has become more active in the last few weeks, but nothing quite like when she was back in New York or when her phone chimes with blasts from Dan Humphrey's stupid website.

Admittedly, she should have unsubscribed from the site after she exposed him to everyone at school. But he had the gall to continue posting, and she has always been concerned that he would go back to posting terrible things about her best friend. She needs to remain up to date on all things Gossip Girl just in case she needs to step in and do some damage control in the form of revenge with the ammunition she received anonymously back at Yale.

The first blast in months had sent her phone clattering to the floor and not entirely because of the ridiculous red one-piece he was wearing in the photograph. Seeing his face after weeks caused everything she had kept bottled in to spill forth, and the accompanying text nearly undid her.

_Spotted: Chuck Bass playing soccer with Nate Archibald. Word is that C has turned to his BFF for a little assistance in learning the art of father-son bonding. Interesting choice considering N's father has vanished without a trace and no one has come forward claiming to be carrying the Devil's spawn._

The texts continue along similar lines, post after post about him preparing to become a father. There is the one of him buying a crib at an upscale baby boutique. Another photograph shows him practicing CPR on an infant-sized dummy during a class at Lennox Hill. The information is not new to her; he had always been adamant that he wants to raise this baby.

But there are others. Ones she finds herself reading over and over again late into the night when the rest of the house has gone to bed because they seem so out of character for him and the exact opposite of what she has come to expect. A photograph of him leaving the office of his therapist, Doctor Krueger, is sent out three different times. Almost as though Humdrum Humphrey wanted to make sure the world understands that Chuck Bass is going to therapy religiously.

The simultaneous buzz of her and Serena's respective phones pulls her out of her revere. Roman looks exacerbated at the intrusion; it is a duel affront to his rule of no cell phones at the dinner table. Blair is about to do her own chastising of Serena when she sees exactly who the text is from given that the blonde across the table from her clearly lied about unsubscribing to Humphrey's site. But then she looks past the sent label, sees the photograph, and reads the accompanying text.

With a face drained of color, she mummers her apologies to Roman and her father before fleeing the room as fast as she can. Her chest feels tight and constricted; the baby is doing violent flips in her belly. She can hear Serena calling after her, telling her to stop and allow her best friend to comfort her. But all she cares about is disappearing, fleeing into the depths of the vineyard and trying to understand exactly what this text means.

_Spotted: The Upper East Side's resident bad boy stepping out of Harry Winston with ring box in hand. C ready to tie the knot? Has hell frozen over? Or are pigs flying in the Rh__ô__ne-Alpes region of France?_


	14. Part Fourteen

Panic courses through Serena when she finds her best friend seated on the ground in the middle of the first row of the vineyard. Blair Waldorf does not sit on the ground unless the stone of the Met steps is beneath her and she certainly does not sit in dirt. But there are a lot of things that Blair has done in the last year that Serena never expected her to, and the blonde takes a seat next to her best friend after ascertaining that Blair did not in fact trip over a vine and hurt herself.

"You were supposed to unsubscribe from that stupid site," Blair snaps. It is a deflection technique, meant to steer the conversation towards Serena's boy problems and away from her own.

"So were you," Serena reminds her as she loops her arm around Blair's shoulders and pulls her close. "In fact, I distinctly remember you standing in the courtyard at Constance and forcing everyone to unsubscribe."

"Do as I say, S, not as I do."

"Oh, I'm definitely following that piece of advice," Serena informs her with a gesture towards Blair's expansive belly. Blair glares at her, crosses her arms across her chest and fails miserably at hiding herself from Serena's gaze.

"When did everything get so screwed up?"

The question is soft, thrown out there after a long pause where the two sit side by side in silence and watch the sun dip behind the vineyard. The blonde turns her attention back to the brunette, watches in silence as Blair runs a delicate hand over her clothed belly with her eyes fixated on her soothing action.

"I mean, I had sex with Chuck Bass in the back of a limo," she spits out with an incredulous tone. Serena closes her eyes at the knowledge, grimaces because she is not exactly sure how that can even work.

"Several times," Blair offers after a beat. She looks up from watching her ministrations and looks her best friend directly in the eye. There are unshed tears in her eyes; emotions locked behind a harsh exterior that are threatening to boil over. "I was engaged. I was going to be Mrs. Blair Archibald not an unmarried mother at nineteen."

"I always thought I'd be the one to get pregnant without being married," Serena tells her. "I mean, it's me. And you've always been so put together, Blair."

Shame fills Blair's cheeks, and Serena jumps to correct the misinterpretation of her statement.

"I'm not judging you, Blair. I can't judge you. Anything you've done I've done too."

"Please tell me you did not have sex with Chuck Bass," Blair says with the exhale of a heavy breath.

"No, but –"

Serena pauses, reaches down deep and pulls out the moment she has tried to bury in her memory. She is going to lose Blair over this, but this secret has been eating away at her night after night. She feels gross for lying, gross for keeping this a secret for so long – a feeling that has only increased since coming to France to help her friend.

Her best friend.

"I had sex with my best friend's fiancé," she says quietly without looking Blair in the eye. When there is no response, no stinging crack to her cheek or shove to make her fall face first into the dirt, she offers names and dates. "I had sex with Nate at the Shepherd's wedding."

There is no shrill cry, no sound of disgust, and Serena does not understand what has happened to her best friend, the Queen B and resident bitch of the Upper East Side. She is thrown completely off guard by Blair's reply.

"I know," Blair informs her softly. "I've always known."

Serena's eyes widen at the confession and she searches out a reason behind Blair's calm exterior. A calm Blair means bad things, but Blair genuinely seems like she has made her peace with the information. She answers Serena's question before she can ask it, tells her that no, Nate did not confess their sin to her. Rather, she had seen the way they acted around one another and constructed the pieces into a plausible story even before Chuck confirmed it for her.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I thought I wasn't supposed to," Blair confesses. "I thought I had to turn a blind eye."

The words that go unsaid are known to both of them. Wives on the Upper East Side – the kind that hold all the power – do in fact turn a blind eye to these kinds of situations. They do it because they have to, because besmirched reputations and shattered families only lead to a division of power and a loss of status. Blair's mother had stayed for so long, desperate to keep the allusion of the perfect Waldorf family alive, and it is only reasonable that Blair would do the same.

Furthermore, it is common knowledge that the van der Bilts – and thus the Archibalds – do not get divorced. Anne Archibald is standing by her husband even after he disappeared from the country because her family's name has already been dragged through enough mud and scandal. Maureen van der Bilt, wife to the junior senator from New York, stays married to Nate's cousin even as he ensconces his mistress in an apartment two floors below because her marriage affords her the right to sit on the board of some of the most powerful charities and organizations in Manhattan.

"I was going to get back at you," Blair quickly adds because she will never be that forgiving. "But then I got – well, you know."

For a moment, Serena wishes that Blair had the opportunity to enact revenge. The selfish part of her, the side that tried to keep this hidden out of fear of losing her best friend is kind of glad she didn't.

"And what about with Chuck?"

"What?"

"If you found out that Chuck and –"

Serena doesn't even get to finish her question, knows exactly the response she will get when the Blair's eyes narrow into a harsh glare.

"I'll scratch your eyes out, whore."

The response speaks to more than just Serena's unfinished question, particularly after Serena holds up her cell phone and the offending text message. Blair looks away, rolls her eyes at her friend's gentle prodding that maybe this means something.

"You and I both know that Dan Humphrey isn't exactly the go to source for quality information."

"I don't know, B," Serena replies as she glances at the photograph one more time. "I don't think this was photoshopped."

"It has to be because if it isn't it means that he has anoth—"

She cuts herself off, chokes back the emotions threatening to escape. He had been explicit in the fact that he doesn't want her as his wife so for him to go out and purchase a ring means that he has found someone else. That everything she feels has been for naught. All of the declarations, all of the quiet moments were just figments of her overactive imagination pulled together in an attempt to construct a fairytale ending to this nightmare.

"B, you know that ring is for you."

"You don't even know if that is a ring."

"What else can you buy from Harry Winston in that small of a box?"

"Earrings," Blair offers sharply as though it is the most logical conclusion. "Cufflinks."

Serena shakes her head, disagrees immensely with Blair's suggestions. She goes on about how all these blasts from Gossip Girl show how much he is trying to change and then it is Blair's turn to shake her head, to disagree immensely with Serena's suggestion. The phone in Serena's hand chimes, distracting the blonde from her attempt at persuading her friend.

"Dan says it was definitely a ring," Serena informs her after reading over the text message spent specifically to her.

"You're talking to him?"

The question sounds more like condemnation, particularly after Blair launches into a lecture in which she reminds Serena just what Dan Humphrey posted on his website about her.

"The only thing lamer than dating Dan Humphrey and mourning Dan Humphrey is trying to get back together with Dan Humphrey."

"This isn't about me and Dan, Blair," Serena interjects. "This about you and Chuck."

"There is no Chuck and Blair. He's not capable of a real relationship, and I – and I can't fall apart right now."

She pauses, runs her hand over her stomach and cradles her unborn child in her hands. Serena reaches over, places her hand against her best friend's hand and gives her a gentle squeeze for reassurance.

"You don't have to be the strong one in front of me, B. You're my family. What is you is me. There's nothing you could ever say to make me let go. I love you. I will always be here for you. You don't have to pretend anymore."

The words wash over them both, and for a long time it feels as though Blair is going to reject them. She adverts her gaze from Serena's, turns her head and pretends that the nighttime sky is most fascinating site to behold. But Serena knows her, sees the chin quiver and is the one to reach up and wipe away the single tear rolling down Blair's cheek.

"It wasn't revenge," Blair informs her softly, and Serena is unable to mask her surprise. "I know that's what you must be thinking. That's what he thinks. But it wasn't revenge. I just..."

Her voice trails off, and it is only Serena's gentle squeeze of her hand that gives her the reassurance to continue speaking.

"For the first time in my life, someone saw me for me. Not as Eleanor's daughter or Serena's best friend or Nate's fiancé. Not for what my family's name can give them. But because I'm Blair. He wanted Blair. Or, at least, I thought he did."

Serena nods in understanding because for once in this whole debacle, she does understand. Her last relationship – her last real relationship that wasn't a hook up at a wedding – was with someone who saw Serena van der Woodsen, Upper East Side socialite, as just Serena. Or, at least, she thought he did because as much as she pushed for dates in Brooklyn and rides on a Vespa, as much as she tried to be just Serena, that wasn't what Dan wanted out of their relationship.

"But you went back to Nate," Serena prompts in confusion. She had suffered from severe whiplash in that moment, twisted her neck as she watched her friend call off her engagement and hook up with Chuck only to go back to Nate just as quickly.

"I told you," Blair snaps. "Chuck's not capable of a relationship."

Serena raises an eyebrow in a nonverbal request for more information. But Blair is keeping mum on this particular aspect, refuses to explain how Chuck hinted at wanting one and then described their activities as merely fucking. Maybe it wasn't a relationship, maybe it wasn't love, but it certainly was something more than the crass term he used to describe what was going on between them.

"The Weidner's ball?"

The reference to that particular moment causes Blair to shiver, causes her stomach to roll in disgust. She had worn the van der Bilt diamond because of Eleanor, of Nate, of society's expectations. She had worn the ring because –

It does not matter now. He had compared her to a sweaty horse, called her damaged goods. A whore unwanted by him. She had been so angry and determined to show him that someone – especially Nate – did want her that she acted rashly, settled on the first idea that came to mind.

"I'm not a whore," Blair informs her best friend sharply. Serena recoils at the suggestion that such a label could be affixed to her best friend. Yes, Blair slept with two guys in one week and thus was required to a test to determine paternity, but her own exploits would certainly earn her such a label. And worse ones at that.

"Stones and glass houses," Serena replies with a shrug. Then, tenderly, Serena presses her hand against Blair's belly and asks her the question that everyone in Blair's life has failed to ask thus far. "B, what do you want to do?"

"Do?" Blair questions in confusion. "About Chuck?"

"Forget Chuck for just a minute," Serena instructs her. "What do you want to do about the baby?"

If Serena expected her to deliberate longer, to waffle between her remaining options, she shows no sign of surprise when Blair raises her head, stares directly into her best friend's eyes, and offers her a firm reply without the slightest bit of hesitation.

"Keep him."

"Oh, B," Serena squeals in excitement as she throws her arms around her best friend and hugs her close. "You're going to be such a great mom! And I – I'm going to be the world's best godmother!"

"No," Blair corrects as she pulls out of the hug. "Not godmother. You're my sister, S. You're his aunt."

Serena squeals again, pulls her best friend in for a hug once more. For just a moment, Blair gets caught up in the excitement, allows herself to forget about the consequences such decision will mean for her future. And then the two pull away from one another. Shift their positions so that they are sitting side by side with Serena's arm looped over Blair's shoulders. A few minutes pass until Blair shivers against the cold, against her own emotions as Serena mulls over her friend's decision.

"B, what about Chuck? You said so yourself, if you keep this baby, he will always be a part of your life," Serena reminds her softly. "But how? As platonic co-parents? Or, do you wanna be with him?"

Blair sweeps her eyes down to her belly, hardens and then softens with a sigh as she softly confesses the part she has kept even from herself.

"I love him. I can't explain it, but I love him. So much that it consumes me."

"So fight for him."

"I did," Blair snaps. "I loved him. I fought for him. Hard. And he pushed me away."

The final sentence is trailed with a sigh, with eyes closed shut against the pain and emotion they encompass. Serena runs a hand through her long, blonde hair, glances at the cell phone sitting in her lap.

"I'm going in," Blair tells her softly. Serena hums her acquiescence, jumps when she feels Blair's elbow jam into her side.

"Right," she replies, clambering to her feet and offering Blair her hands. She helps hoist the brunette to her feet and then assists in brushing the dirt off of Blair's dress and tights when her friend cannot bend down to reach. Blair walks off, stops a short way down the row of the vineyard when she notices Serena is not following her.

"Are you coming?"

"Uh, in a minute," Serena replies as she holds up her phone. "I have a call to make."

Blair's eyes narrow at the reply, and Serena quickly assures her that she is not going to call Dan Humphrey. Rather, she needs to call her mother because she has been avoiding the whole leaving Brown conversation for too long. Blair does not seem at all convinced, but she is too emotionally exhausted to fight and she leaves Serena with a questioning look on her face.

When the brunette is out of earshot, when she is confident that Blair will not hear her, Serena scrolls through her contacts until she reaches the number Nate gave her to give to her mother months ago. With a quick look to make sure Blair is not hovering in the shadows, she presses the call button and holds the phone to her ear. No answer, and for that she is almost grateful.

"What you're doing? She needs more. If you wanna be back in her life, make her feel safe."


	15. Part Fifteen

Serena suggests they visit Paris one weekend out of the blue, comes up with some lame reason as to why they should go after she disappears in Lyon on one Thursday afternoon. Blair refuses, but her father insists that she needs to get out of this house and enjoy her vacation in France.

(Yes, her father still calls it a vacation even though she has been living here since January.)

When they arrive in the city at mid-morning, Serena tries to haul her best friend up to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Yet the line for the elevators is long and Blair is not about to walk up to the top. Plus, she has to pee thanks the child using her bladder as his personal trampoline. After getting a bite to eat at the café because there are no public restrooms – or, at least that is the excuse Blair gives her – Serena comes up with the idea that they should go to the Musee d'Orsay to look at Blair's favorite painting by Édourard Manet.

The two wander around the Beaux-Arts railway station, home of the Musee d'Orsay, with Serena becoming increasingly agitated as Blair takes her time. Serena snaps at Blair for being so slow; Blair snaps at Serena for being so uncultured. They finally reach Blair's favorite painting after more than forty-five minutes of art appreciation only to find that the Manet has been taken down for restoration work. Serena insists that they stand in front of where the painting should hang for a while, but Blair blows her off in favor of visiting some of her other favorites within the museum.

Serena suggests the two head to the other side of the city when Blair finally decides that she is ready to leave the Musee d'Orsay. The idea is entirely unappealing as Blair's feet are swollen, her back hurts, and she would really like to go home right now. She tells Serena she will head back to Lyon with or without her, cannot understand why Serena needs to make a phone call before they can leave.

Her friend leaves her sitting in front of the Musee for the duration of her phone call. It feels nowhere near as sophisticated as sitting on the steps of the Met. There she was Queen – in control and not hugely pregnant. Here is she unknown – floating in the abyss and hugely pregnant.

The sun sinks down, causing the City of Lights to come alive as they travel to the train station in the first taxi they can find when Serena returns to her side. Despite her exhaustion and the extra weight she is forced to carry, she moves faster than Serena through the train station. In fact, if Blair didn't know any better, she would think that Serena was purposefully taking her time. She glances over her shoulder, yells at Serena to hurry up. And then she looks forward, dead set on reaching the platform before the next train leaves when her eyes widen and her feet freeze.

For a brief moment, she thinks that her eyes might be playing tricks on her, that her brain might no longer be able to separate dreams from realities. For a brief moment, she considers turning around and fleeing, but something inside her compels her to walk forward. He echoes her movements, meets her in the middle of the bridge above the train platform.

"What are you doing here, Chuck?"

"You ask me that question a lot, you know," he replies with a small smile. "And every single time I don't know if I should tell you what you want to hear or the truth."

He reaches out to touch her yet drops his hand when he fears that the action may cross the imaginary line deeply etched between them. She furrows her brow in suspicion, appraises him up and down with questioning eyes.

"Did you set this up?"

"Not quite," he acknowledges. "Serena helped me plan it. I was going to go to Lyon, but she suggested – I mean, we were supposed to meet at the top of the Eiffel Tower but then that fell apart so we were going to meet at the –"

"The Musee d'Orsey," she completes.

Her gaze shifts to look over his shoulder, sees her best friend standing to the side and watching them expectantly. She glares at her best friend, and the action causes the hope in his chest to fizzle and plunge towards its death.

"I'm sorry," he whispers softly. "I don't want to upset you. I just…"

"You just what?"

"I don't want to be an unrepentant bad boy who no one cares lives or dies."

She blinks back tears, shakes her head in frustration at his words because he still doesn't understand, he still doesn't get it.

"I do! Don't you understand?" She cries out. "I love you. I love you so much that it consumes me, that I cannot bear to be separated from you. You hurt me over and over again, and yet I – I keep coming back for more."

Her voice drops. Her gaze shifts to the floor of the train station as she tries to steady herself, as she comes to terms with what this all-consuming love might mean for her as an individual.

"Maybe that makes me weak."

"No," he informs her. "You are the strongest woman I know. You carried me during everything with my father. You believed in me even when I couldn't believe in myself. You never give up on people. Even when they don't deserve it. It's why you'll be an amazing mother."

"Or maybe it will be my downfall."

"Never," he replies. "Our son will be lucky to have you."

This time he steps forward, cannot resist softly touching her chin and forcing her to look at him.

"I would be lucky to have you," he says as his thumb lightly strokes her jawbone. She swallows the lump in her throat at his words, frantically blinks back the tears she refuses to shed.

"When you called me your wife," she chokes out, "you made it sound like the dirtiest word in the world."

He sighs, takes a deep breath as he tries to find the right words to explain himself. She sounds so sad and he can feel her slipping away from him with each passing second.

"That's because I don't want you to be my wife," he informs her. She jerks away at his comment, but he follows her movements and continues speaking. "I want you to be Blair. It would be stupid of anyone to want you to be anything other than what you are. You don't need to be the perfect Upper East Side wife to have me."

"And what if I don't want to be the Blair that loves you?"

The question twists the knife already logged in his heart, guts until every breath makes his chest ache further.

"Then don't," he manages to croak out. "But I know you still feel it. Even now."

"How?" She asks with a furrowed brow.

"Because I still feel it too."

"That doesn't change anything. No matter what I feel or don't, we're not safe."

"We're never going to be safe," he informs her. "It's what makes us Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck."

"I have a baby to protect," she reminds him with a glance towards her obviously pregnant belly.

"Which you know I want," he retorts. "Which you know I've wanted since I found out."

The knowledge swims inside her head. There is no denying that what he says is true. He chased her to a helipad, chased her to France over the child that she is carrying. She has known that he wanted this baby even before she truly knew that he wanted her.

"I know that I've hurt you. I am so sorry for the pain I've caused you, and I know that I cannot take it back. But I want to try and make it up to you, even if takes me the rest of my life."

He reaches into his pocket, extracts the black box and holds it in a clinched fist beside his leg. He fingers it, drags strength from deep within so he can continue with his soliloquy. But her question interrupts him, stops him in his tracks.

"And why would you do that?"

"Because –" He takes a deep breath, gathers all his courage, and lays it all out there. "Because in the face of true love you don't just give up, even if the object of your affection is begging you to."

Her heart beats wildly in her ears as he raises the ring box in hand and holds it out to her in a silent offering. If she would just look at him, she would see the words scrawled across his face. He knows this is what he wants, thinks that maybe this is only way to prove to her how much he has changed. He raises his other hand, moves as though he is going to open the box and show her the ring inside.

But then her delicate fingers curl around the ring box in his outstretched palm and prevent him from moving any further. She looks from the black box that has held her fascination for the last few seconds to his face, sees it morph from anxious worry to petrified fear. And then she steps closer towards him, raises her own hand and reaches out to stroke his cheek just as he did for her moments ago.

He flinches at the movement until he has stepped away from her searching hands. The haggard breath that escapes from his lips sounds more like a whimper, and he winces at the weakness and desperation he is showing. He tries to firm himself against her, tries to extract the box and swallow the physical manifestations of his desires back inside himself. But her fingers tighten around the box until she all but rips it from his hand.

"Chuck, please," she beseeches. She swallows the lump in her throat and looks at him with misty eyes. "If you ask me, I will say yes."

His eyes flash to hers. He cannot fathom why her agreeing to be his wife would be such a bad thing. He will never expect her to be anything but herself, never try to box her into a role as her mother and Nate's father did. And he has worked so hard, tried to be the man she deserves and the father their son needs.

The disappointment and anger and dying hope pulls and tears at him until he can barely breathe, until he is fixated on her and desperately searching for an answer. She closes her eyes, and he watches her lick her lips as she tries to find the right words to explain herself. Her eyelashes flutter, expose crystal clear eyes brimming with honesty.

"We have already rushed so much," she reminds him gently. "We've never been an official couple. We've never even gone on a date."

He opens his mouth to contradict her, but closes his mouth when he realizes how right she is. Chuck and Blair holding hands? Chuck and Blair going to the movies? No.

Chuck and Blair go to Victrola and have sex. Chuck and Blair ride in his limo and have sex. Chuck and Blair lock themselves away from the outside world and have massive amounts of sex whilst pretending their lives are not crashing down around them.

"I'd rather wait," she says as she holds the box out to him. "Figure out things with the baby and work on us and then maybe in the future…"

"If I was Na—"

"Stop!" She cuts him off before he can follow down that treacherous, well-traveled path once more. "If you were Nate, I wouldn't be with you, okay?"

His eyes widen at the question because, frankly, he cannot believe the words coming out of her mouth. Twice! She went back to Nate twice. She slipped on that stupid diamond and pretended like he meant nothing.

"This wasn't about revenge," she says with a violent shake of her head before he can speak again. She bits on the bottom of her lip in an attempt to keep herself from crying over how wrong, how so very wrong he is. "If it was, I would have told him about us, driven the dagger in myself rather than begging you not to. And I wouldn't have slept with him after you called me a broken-in horse."

He cannot help the upwelling of regret within him at the reminder of what he once said to her. He had known even as he said the words then that they were false and twisted lies. But he wanted nothing more in that moment that to hurt her for hurting him, for slipping on that retched diamond and pretending he was nothing more than trash dragged in from Brooklyn.

"That? That was revenge," she retorts harshly. Her determination to make him see, to make him understand is further fueled by her anger. "But you and me? It was never about revenge. And the fact that you thought that?"

She sighs, runs a hand along the curve of her belly. The tented dress pulls and moves with her actions until it is stretched tight over her rounded form and their eyes are both pulled to her expanded waistline. She closes her hand at the reassuring kick of her son under her hand, draws her strength from the movements against her palm as she raises her head and looks at him with misty eyes.

"You called me a whore. You refused to say those three one-syllable words. You sent me away when I just tried to help. But I – I have never wanted to die more than when you said we were just revenge."

He tenderly places his hand against her belly at a spot where it can rest alongside her own. He waits in silence, melts when he feels a strong thump against his hand. His eyes widen with such excitement that she cannot help the smile that gilts across her face. For a brief movement, as the child in her belly rolls and kicks, everything between them is pushed to the wayside and forgotten.

"I love you, Blair."

Hands resting side by side on her belly, he speaks the words softly as his thumb moves to rest on her thumb in quiet reassurance. She turns her own thumb until the pads of their fingers are touching, until they are not holding hands but starting to get to that point.

Her eyes are downcast, fixated on way they are touching as their son quiets and stills within her. He reaches out, tilts her jaw back gently so she has no choice but to look him in the eye.

"I meant what I said. I know that I've hurt you, and I am sorry for the things I have done. I am sorry for not allowing you to speak, for deciding what is right for us without consideration of what you want. And I am sorry for not telling you I loved you when I knew I did. I was scared, but I did the most dangerous thing I could when flew here the first time and said those words to you. And if I have to spend the rest of my life making it up to you and facing that danger over and over again, I will because I love you."

Her body trembles with a sob, and they both know the heightened hormones coursing through her body as a result of this pregnancy are not entirely to blame. She shifts her weight, moves her fingers closer to his until their index fingers and their thumbs are overlapping across her belly.

"I love you, too," she informs him softly. She shifts her gaze to the ring box in her hand. With a deep breath, she holds it out to him in a silently offering with an open palm. He reaches for it, pauses with his hand in mid-air. And then his fingers press hers until they are curled back around the box.

"Keep it," he instructs. "And when you're ready, you can hand it to me and I will know."

She nods, pulls the ring box back against her chest, and clutches it close. She mulls over his offer, mulls over what he is saying to her with this edict, and then she offers him the only thing she has left.

"Ask me to come back to New York."


	16. Epilogue

**Author's Note: **First of all, I wrote this and then I decided to rewatch 3x18 in order to make sure I had the quotes right. Of course, only then did I realize I changed the order of the scenes. Trying to make it fit would have required scraping nearly 2,000 words of work so I'm calling creative license on this one. Sorry about that. Finally, I wish to thank you all for your support in this endeavor. This is officially the longest story I have ever written and I was nervous the whole time, but you all held my hand and offered me words of encouragement when I needed them most. Gracias! Obrigado! Merci! Thank you!

* * *

His hands encircle her waist; his fingers flare about her hipbones and rub teasing circles. She squirms, fights to regain the upper hand in this dance.

"Chuck," she warns gravely.

His response is a smirk. He keeps her moving, keeps her light on her feet as the folksy music strums in the background. Her body moves tauntingly, sways against his fingers as he guides her across her floor.

"Miss Blair, you go down!" Dorota jeers as she and Vanya move across the floor.

The warning brings a smirk to both their lips. The innuendo makes them laugh, but it is so easy that even Chuck feels the need to hold his tongue. He says they must win now, but she shakes her head in disagreement. The prize – a collection of nesting dolls – is not worth it.

"We should stop."

"Why?" He replies softly as his fingers stroke through her hair and down her arm. "Aren't we the happy couple?"

"Yes, but –"

His fingers skimming over her elbow cause her to pause, leaving him an opening for his argument.

"And don't we deserve a lifetime of happiness?"

"Chuck, this is Dorota and Vanya's day," she reminds him with a gesture towards the red balloon between them. "We should pop the balloon, and give them a chance at happiness."

"But they're cheating," Chuck whines with a glance towards the bride and groom-to-be.

The truth is the other happy couple kind of is. Their own red balloon is resting on Dorota's expansive belly rather than squished between them, and there is very little chance of the balloon falling to the ground as they hop and skip about the dance floor.

"And you know I hate to lose," he reminds her with a squeeze to her hip.

"Pop the balloon, and I'll let you see me."

"You'll do that regardless," he replies with a self-satisfied smirk. She wants nothing more than to swipe it off his face, so she pulls out her trump card and ends the game.

"You misheard me," she informs him with the perfect blend of sass and innocence before stepping in for the kill. "I'll let you see your baby."

She reaches between them and pops the red balloon with an explosive noise. The crowd erupts into cheers, pushes past them to congratulate Dorota and Vayna on the longevity of their relationship. She gives him a coy smile as she flounces off and leaves him standing in the middle of the dance floor in shock.

* * *

"You've been avoiding me all night," he nearly growls when he finally finds her alone. She feigns innocence, gives him a smirk as she looks up at him from her seat at a table that was not assigned to them.

"Have I? You seemed busy yourself," she replies. "Vanya's cousin must be quite the linguist to have kept your attention for so long. I know how much you admire a woman who knows how to use her tongue."

"I have tongue," the drowsy little boy in her arms interjects. "See!"

He sticks out his tongue, offers them a sleepy smile when his father lets out a bark of laughter. He cuddles closer to his mother when she reaches up to stroke his mop of brown hair and sooth him back to sleep.

"I thought you were sleeping, baby," she replies with an indignant look towards Chuck. He shakes his head at her, refuses to take the blame when she was the one who decided to say something so uncouth in front of their son.

"I not tired," the little boy replies lethargically. His argument is in no way convincing, particularly not after he finishes it off with a wide, open-mouth yawn.

"Here," Chuck offers as he slides his hands under the little boy's arms and pulls him out of his mother's lap. "I'll take him upstairs. You go say goodnight to everyone."

He shifts the little boy so that his body is pressed against Chuck's in a big hug. His arms are flopped over his father's shoulders. He is too tired to even wrap his arms around Chuck's neck and hold on. Blair stands, brushes invisible dirt off her dress before throwing his husband a look of gratitude.

"Don't forget about Harry Bear," she replies as she offers out the well-loved stuffed animal, a gift from Harold and Roman. He grabs it despite his full hands, would hate to forget it and have to go looking for the bear later when Henry realizes it's missing. He watches Blair disappear into the crowd, looks for signs that her early statement is true.

"Did you have a good time, Henry?" Chuck asks his son softly over the music, dancing, and happy crowd as he heads towards the exit.

"Yeah," Henry mumbles against his neck. His hot breath tickles his father's skin as he lifts up his hand to show his father the white ribbon tied about his wrist. "I have balloon."

"I see that," Chuck replies as his eyes travel up the string tied about Henry's wrist to the red balloon swaying in the breeze of the air conditioning.

"Mommy no pop."

"No," he promises his son as he pats the little boy's back reassuringly. "I won't let Mommy touch it."

The elevator dings, and he is careful to make sure the balloon does not become pinched in the doors. Henry lets out an audible yawn, gives up on protesting that he is not tired as he buries his face into the crook of his father's shoulder.

Chuck greets Monkey with a soft hello when he steps off the elevator into the penthouse. He sidesteps the toys dropped haphazardly in the hallway. The ones that Henry chose to leave behind when his mother told he could not bring all his favorites to Dorota's wedding to share with her and Vanya.

The door to Henry's room is ajar with the light on his dresser left on in anticipation of his late arrival. It casts a soft glow across the royal purple walls, lighting Chuck's way to the little boy's bed. He pulls back the covers with his free hand, gently sets his son down against the pillow.

The little boy's miniature Italian loafers are pulled off and his bowtie and red balloon untied from around his neck and wrist, respectively. The balloon is tied to the headboard of his bed so that it will be the first thing the little boy sees when awakens. Chuck pauses, debates whether or not he should leave the boy to sleep in his suit – the one that makes him look like a carbon copy of his father – or change him into his pajamas. Figuring he'll be more comfortable in the later, Chuck sets to work pulling off his son's clothes and exchanging them for the first pair of silk pajamas he pulls out the dresser.

His son rolls away, sleepily protests in the same way that Blair does when she falls asleep in her gown and doesn't want to get up and change. Chuck cannot suppress a grin at how similar mother and son's mannerisms are, marvels over the other features that his son has inherited from his mother. When he finishes, he places a kiss against the sleeping boy's temple, tucks the covers up around his chin, and slips his precious stuffed bear into the bed beside him.

"I love you, Henry."

"Love you, Daddy," Henry mumbles as clutches his bear tighter and rolls towards the wall and away from the light. Monkey pads out of the room ahead of him, heads straight for the bed he is not allowed on as Chuck bids his son goodnight and softly shuts the door.

* * *

He is already in bed reading the newspaper, already changed into his own pajamas when he hears the familiar ping of the elevator doors. Monkey's ears perk up at the noise, and he tries to warn the dog that he should get down. Yet Blair enters the room to find him still lying on top of the king-sized bed anyways. One cutting glare from her and the dog immediately leaps down and heads to his own bed in the corner.

"You're not supposed to let him up there," she reminds him sharply before shutting the double doors to their bedroom behind her.

"He doesn't listen to me," Chuck replies with a shrug.

She doesn't buy his argument – not for a single minute. He watches her slip off her shoes and leave them in a pile beside the door before she sits down at her dressing table.

"I can't help it that you're the only one who can keep the Bass Boys in line."

She audibly scoffs at his suggestion, but he can see her lips quirk into a smile through the mirror hanging above her dressing table. He drops the newspaper to his lap, watches her unclasp her necklace, remove her earrings, and place everything back into her jewelry box. There is something utterly sensual about the way she pulls out the bobby pins holding back part of her curls from her face, and he watches her completely mesmerized.

He firmly expects her to say something, to call him out on watching her when she spies him through the mirror. But she says nothing, stands up and starts to head towards the double doors beside their bed leading to the closet. He reaches out, snags her elbow with his outstretched hand, and yanks her towards their bed.

She keeps her balance, doesn't tumble on top of him like he had hoped she would. Her indignant protest falls on deaf ears as he wraps his hands around her waist and holds her in place.

"Don't you have something to tell me?"

His fingers stroke her skin through the ruffles of her champagne colored dress. His thumbs run over the sequence of the bodice of her attire. And he looks up from where his hands reside to her eyes with just a shadow of hesitation.

"I have no idea what you're referring to," she teases.

"Blair," he warns. He shifts in bed, throws his legs over the edge, and pulls her forward so she's standing between him. "Don't tease me."

The later comes out more like a plea rather than a warning, and her teasing smile falls as she runs her hands through his hair. He looks worried and hopeful, and she decides to finally put him out her misery. She reaches behind her, tugs down the zipper, and steps back to let the dress fall to a puddle at her feet. It is a terrible way to treat couture, but wrinkled piles on the floor are becoming rather common place in her life.

His eyes rake over her body. She feels smug when his breath still catches in his throat at the sight of her because her body never did return to the way it was pre-Henry. She steps forward, watches as his hands slide across her hips just above the waist band of her panties. She wraps her fingers around his, tugs his hands until they are resting against the flat plane of her belly, and he eyes her wantonly, expectantly.

"November seventh."

He raises an eyebrow at the date, tries to formulate the words to ask her if what he is hearing is true. His fingers stroke softly, reveling in the heat radiating between their touching naked skins.

"My due date is November seventh."

He pulls her backwards so she falls on top of him, plants a searing kiss against her lips before turning his attention to her delectable neck. She sighs and squirms, asks him if this means that he is happy with the news.

"Tonight, I think what I love most about you is the way I feel with you. With you, I am the best version of myself," he whispers softly to her. "I have peace in my heart knowing that I am a good husband, a good father. I will die a proud man very much in love."

"You can't steal another man's words and expect me to fall into bed with you," she retorts as she pushes herself away from his chest.

"Is it stealing if they're true?" He runs his fingers across her bare back, allows them to become hopelessly entangled in the curls of her hair.

"Yes," she snaps. She glares from her spot hovering above him, focuses on his fraudulent declarations rather than the feeling of his fingers across her skin.

"Alright," he concedes softly before he ghosts his own words across her collarbone. "I love you."

"Is that it?"

"You and I are magnetic. You can feel it," he adds with a kiss to her neck just below her jawline. He knows just where to touch to make her melt, knows that his words are having the desired effect. "And you – you are the lightest thing that ever came into my life."

"Chuck Bass is a romantic? Who knew?"

"You do," he replies before kissing her lips softly. "And that's all that matters."

"I love you, too," she affirms as she pushes off of him, draws her legs up, and presses her knees into the bed on either side of him so she is straddling his hips. She sinks down and finds him hard and ready, hot and heavy below her body.

"Are you happy?"

She asks the question again because of a part of her may always doubt it. Chuck Bass is an amazing father and husband and lover, but sometimes it is hard to believe that he changed for her, for Henry. And now another baby, another unplanned pregnancy –

"This wasn't exactly planned," she reminds him as his fingers ghost across her flat stomach. "I just took over at Waldorf Designs for my mother."

"Timing has never been our strong suit," he reminds her.

He might have meant as a joke but there is a hint of weariness that creeps into both of their eyes at the reminder of the unplanned baby at nineteen and all those flights back and forth across the Atlantic when words failed them.

"Hey," he says gently as he shifts in bed so he is seated and she is straddling him from her position in his lap. He tips her chin, forces her to look at him with teary eyes. "I wouldn't change this, okay? I got you and Henry and –"

His palm slides across her body, settles above where the next aspect of their lives exists. He has always wanted their baby, and this time will be – _is_ – no different. His brain jumps into overdrive, searches for the right words – his own words – to belay any kind of doubt in her mind.

"I'm not Chuck Bass without Blair Waldorf."

He hopes she will understand that they are just as meaningful as what Vanya told Dorota tonight, hopes she will understand that he would be nothing without her. Because there have never been truer words spoken from his lips.

"Ah," she corrects as she strokes his cheek with the back of her hand, dragging the diamond across his face. "But I'm not Blair Waldorf anymore."

"True," he acknowledges before amending his earlier statement. "I'm not Chuck Bass without Blair Waldorf-Bass."

She kisses him deeply, longing to show him that she does in fact understand and succeeds when she leaves him breathless and aching. She presses against him, revels in the warmth and reassurance of his love as he hands slide to her ass and pulls her tighter against him.

"Please don't doubt my love for you."

She sighs against his neck, trembles at the anxiety behind his voice. She reaches between them and strokes him through his silk pajama pants.

"Never," she promises as he hisses at the sensation. His head falls backwards in anticipation as she unties the drawstring. His hips lift so that she can pull the fabric down just enough to let him free.

"You pursued me, fought for me. You flew commercial for me," she tells him as she pulls the fabric of her lace La Perlas to the side and allows his blunt head to caress her slick flesh in a blatant promise.

"Twice," he reminds her as he shifts beneath her.

She hisses out at the overwhelming feeling of sheer anticipation. Her lashes droop as he shifts against her again, and she watches his face from beneath her lashes as she raises a fraction higher, edges back a little more, and then slowly, savoring every minute, helps to guide him inside of her.

He tightens his arms about her, revels in the feeling of her softness cradling him and her firm breasts pressed against his chest. There is no one else; there never will be anyone else who makes him feel this way. He rolls the two of them so that she is on her back and he is hovered above her, slides out and back in so slowly that she cannot help but gasp at the sensation.

Her fingers become entwined with his as their hands are placed against the mattress beside her head. Maybe it was meant to hold her down, take control as he controls the meeting of their bodies and places kisses along her neck and travels downward to catch her erect nipple between his lips.

He appears to be in control even as her hips lift beneath his, driving and directing him forward. But she wins out in the end because the two of them finish together holding hands, and when he collapses against her, she is the one to kiss him over and over just below the jawline in between whispered confessions of love.

Eventually, he slides out of her and rolls onto his back so that the cool silk of the sheets can absorb the heat radiating from his body. He half expects her to slide out of the bed, head towards the bathroom in order to wash away the evidence of them on her body. Instead, she reaches across the small space between them, grasps his hand in hers and entwines their fingers in an unspoken confirmation. Then she shifts, moves towards the nightstand to grab –

"We're not watching a movie," he states firmly as his fingers curl about her hip and pull her back to the mattress

"Why not?" She questions as she rolls to her side and eyes him with a head supported upright by the elbow digging into the mattress. "A dog? Two kids? We're an old, boring married couple now, Bass."

"No," he firmly replies, turning his head and staring back at her. "We could never be boring."

She smiles at his reply, willingly forgoes watching the movie they started and yet never finished weeks ago. Instead, she lifts half her body over him, drapes her legs about him, and sidles into the circle of his arm. This spot is hers, this is where she belongs, and no one can take this from her.

They make an odd sight, a far cry from the put together individuals the rest of their world sees them as. His silk pajama pants are puddled midway down his calves and her lace panties are torn and slightly askew on her hips. They're lying horizontally across the bed, heads resting on neither pillows nor the duvet draped over the foot of the bed.

And yet none of it matters because they are Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck, and that means more than most anyone can realize. They are inevitable, invincible, in love. And tonight, as they fall asleep entwined together, they both can revel in the knowledge that they will pursue each other to the ends of the earth and to the most dangerous parts of their souls over and over again for this.


End file.
